AYE DO OR DIE
by Candy Calvert
ISBN: 0-7387-0904-2
Publisher: Midnight Ink
Release Date: February 2007

Darcy Cavanaugh zips herself into Retro polka dots and sails under the Golden Gate to be a bridesmaid for a fellow nurse--and to put a lot of nautical miles between herself and a certain hive-inducing velvet jewelry box. Was that really an engagement ring she saw hidden under a stack of her boyfriend’s boxer shorts? Darcy's certain she's genetically programmed for relationship failure, especially after last year’s humiliating disaster with Firefighter Sam.

The “booze cruise,” with its rowdy entourage of Traveler Nurses and practical joking firefighters, gives Darcy time to think about the impending proposal as well as a respite from the annoying reality that she’s been the target of a poet stalker. And then suddenly Firefighter Sam climbs the gangway; a poem is taped to her cabin door . . . and someone tries to murder the groomsmen one by one.

AYE DO OR DIE

copyright© 2006 Candy Calvert

Chapter One

“So, is there a time limit on boob scratching before I go certifiably nuts?” I asked as I glared into the cabin mirror and daubed calamine lotion around a dozen spot-size Band-Aids above my cleavage.

“You're . . . umm . . . way beyond it, Babe.”

Marie Whitley's reflection slid into view from behind me, dark brows raised as she mumbled around the slim cheroot pinched between her teeth. “Light years maybe.”

“Great.” I moaned and inspected the Band Aids; not the trendiest accessories for cruise wear but--Oh jeez. A long strand of my coppery hair stuck to the calamine and I picked at it while fighting yet another tidal wave of itching. A rash from “nerves?” No way. Did that dermatologist forget that I was a trauma nurse? Darcy Cavanaugh, Emergencies R Us, that's me. And, bet your sweet ass, we ER nurses wear our nerve like boxing gloves. So it's not like a little . . . life stress would give me blotches.

I peered at my pathetic reflection and sighed. Maybe I did have a few things weighing on my mind, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. This five-day wedding cruise would give me the time I needed to--I raised my brows at my best friend's deepening smirk. “Well?” I whirled to face her. “C'mon, tell me the truth here. What are you laughing at, the Band-Aids or this pink gunk?”

Marie took a quick drag on her cheroot and exhaled, flicking a spray of ashes from the front of her polka dot bridesmaid gown. “Neither. Sorry.” Her gray eyes squinted under a curly fringe of bangs while cherry smoke wafted into the air, mingling with the scent of my calamine. “It's these dresses. 'Vintage'? Would you just look at us?”

She wrestled with her matching dotted belt as the ship's whistle began a series of blasts. “You realize that in a couple of hours we're sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge and right into a freaking re-run of 'I Love Lucy'?” Marie rolled her eyes. “I'm forty, not vintage. And these dots do scary things to my hips. I feel like Ethel Mertz.”

I looked back at our dual reflections and shook my head. Navy polka dot dresses, shoulder pads, white cuffs, scarlet lipstick and polish. I glanced at my reddish curls top-knotted with a silk scarf high above my itchy skin and then opened my green eyes wide.  Marie had nailed it. We were the wacky duo for a new millennium: Itchy Lucy and Gay Ethel. And we were traveling with a group of practical jokers that made even those endless re-runs look tame. Horny firemen and traveling nurses. Not a good combo, trust me.

I glanced toward the cabin window as a roar of laughter preceded the hollow thunder of Conga drums. We'd barely survived squirting cameras and blue-dye chewing gum; could whoopee cushions be far behind? Lord help us. The sail-away party had begun.

“How the heck did I get shanghaied into this clown gig?” Marie grumbled.

“For Patti Ann, of course,” I said, tossing lotion-soaked cotton balls toward a wastebasket. One pink blob missed and stuck to a banana in the complimentary fruit basket. “We're her 'dearest and closest gal friends'.”

Marie stared at me. “We've known her for exactly nine months, Darc'.” She picked the cotton off the banana and wrinkled her nose. “Nine months does not a bridesmaid make. Not with polka dots. You're way too easy.”

I shrugged and felt the Band-Aids strain. “Okay, maybe her closest friends geographically.”

It was true. Patti Ann Devereaux, cruise ship bride, was from Mobile, Alabama and had been a traveling nurse in our Morgan Valley Hospital for nine months now. Three tours. Tours? Like combat? Maybe so. Working with someone in the trenches of a trauma ward with short staffing, re-routed ambulances, mandatory overtime and the occasional crack-head armed with a knife, did make for wartime camaraderie among nurses brave--or foolish--enough to stay enlisted. Like Marie, and like me too. Eight years. Couldn't believe I was still there. No, not true. What I still couldn't believe was that I'd almost left it last year to sell orthotics for a podiatrist. Burnout can do that, but the job definitely made for some interesting moments. I glanced back into the mirror and sighed. Like zipping you into a polka dot, high-seas nightmare.

“And besides,” I said, smiling slowly, “She found that great wedding planner with a last-second discount on this cruise . . . San Francisco, Seattle and Vancouver Island--great places for a few hundred bucks. And you don't even have to work onboard this time. Pure relaxation. Can't complain about that.”

“Watch me,” Marie said, holding the full-skirt out. “At least Carol's not here to witness this humiliation. If she weren't at that Book Expo, she'd have talked me out of cruising with you again.” Marie narrowed her eyes. “She still has those issues about my getting too close to cross-dressers and kinky lingerie sculpture and dead bodies. Not to mention the torching of my favorite pair of socks.”

I crossed my arms. “It was one sock, and the F.B.I. replaced it for you. Six months ago.” FBI. My stomach did its roller-coaster plunge and I bit my lower lip to fight a sudden fireball of itching. FBI.

Marie nodded. “Only because you were about to hop in the sack with a Federal Agent.” She raised her brows. “Which reminds me, are you still denying that this itch--pardon the word--to sail away into the sunset, has nothing to do with running away from him?” She pursed her lips and gave a smug nod as I raised a fingertip to rub at a Band-Aid. “Right. And I'm also supposed to believe you forgot all about that little velvet jewelry box you found hidden under a stack of his boxer shorts.” She sighed. “So, are you going to tell me what happened last ni--”?

A knock on the cabin door made us turn, and a chubby brunette bounced inside. Patti Ann Devereaux wore a dotted illusion veil and a tee shirt stretched taut across ample breasts, its hot pink glitter letters proudly pronouncing, “I AM THE BRIDE.”

“Oh my Ga--awd,” she gushed, dark lashes fluttering, “Don't y'all look just wo-on-derful?” She stretched her arms wide and launched herself toward Marie. I smothered a laugh as Marie squirmed in the bride's arms. But mostly I studied Patti Ann. It had become like some weird hobby for me since she'd begun her wedding plans a few weeks ago. I'd been pretty close to obsessed with it since I'd accidentally found the jewelry box in my boyfriend's dresser. I just didn't understand. How could someone only twenty-two years old be so certain that marriage was the right thing to do? For god sake, I was thirty and it had taken me weeks to commit to keeping my grandma's goldfish. This whole confusing mess had me pretty close to tearing open boxes of macaroni and cheese. You know, that stuff you mix with milk and half a cube of hydrogenated oil, then eat right out of the pan . . . this was a bad sign. Patti Ann released Marie and raised her palms like the just-healed in a revival tent. “Oh Lord. Marie Claire, this is so-oo beyo-ond perfect. You look exactly like one of our old photos.” Her voice choked up and I bit my lip as Marie backed her polka dots into the fruit basket. “In Grandma's wedding picture? You are just the spittin' image of Great Aunt Ethel.”

***

On deck, I smoothed my coral tee over my striped capris and watched Marie jab a paper umbrella into her drink like some psychotic Mary Poppins. If I called her Ethel again she was going to haul off and slug me. It had been hard enough to get her to agree to be a bridesmaid. Not that I blamed her since, frankly, hopping on board a “Booze-Cruise” with an uprooted southern belle, her paramedic fiancé and his half a dozen firefighter cohorts wasn't my first choice of a getaway either. But it was a getaway. And I needed to. He bought an engagement ring? And there was still that creepy problem with Fed Ex. I slid my arms along the teak deck rail and nudged an elbow into Marie's L. L. Bean flannel. Beyond us the San Francisco skyline rose from a scattering of low-lying clouds and stretched upward toward the late afternoon sun, purple, silver, coral pink . . . and heart-rending familiar. I could tell you the exact mileage from my place to my boyfriend's apartment near the Presidio. And all the shortcuts I took when lust smothered my fear of speeding tickets. “At least Patti Ann's satisfied now, so we don't have to climb back into polka dot hell until we walk down that aisle in Victoria Gardens.”

I nodded toward Coit Tower, the Trans America building and the Bay Bridge in the distance. “And meanwhile we've got the City by the Bay and--”

Marie poked me with the umbrella stick. “Quit stalling and just tell me. What did you say to your Special Agent last night?”

I took a deep breath of salty air and let my gaze drift away from the hubbub of the Embarcadero Pier and back out across the bay. A fishing boat, its deck stacked high with crab pots, chugged on toward Fishermen's Wharf with a flock of greedy gulls squawking overhead. Further out, sailboats leaned into the breeze, and I wondered if one of them was his. The Shamrock Tattoo. I groaned. It shouldn't have surprised me that a guy who'd name a boat after my left breast was getting way too serious.

“Well?” Marie reached for another drink from a passing deck steward and sailed her paper umbrella overboard. “Did you tell him you'd move back East with him, or did you break the big Fed's heart? ”

The itching on my chest was giving way to a strange achy feeling and I didn't know which was worse. I stopped watching the sailboat and turned back to Marie.

“The Boston assignment starts in two weeks and I told him that I don't see how I can go.” I glanced down, avoiding Marie's eyes, and cleared my throat. “I mean it's not like I can just pick up and traipse across the country, you know. My Grandma's in that legal mess, and how would the ER replace me on such short notice and . . . .”

The ship's horn blasted, drowning my pathetic and well-rehearsed litany. The horn repeated three more times and then a deafening chorus of taunting laughter and hoots replaced it decibel for decibel. I turned and shook my head. “Great. Looks like our groomsmen are in fine form.”

“Yup.” Marie rolled her eyes. “And here comes the reason.”

Sure enough, the firefighters' heated response had announced the entrance of Patti Ann's twenty-three year old wedding planner, Kirsty Pelham. The tall, leggy blonde in black-framed glasses and crisp green Ann Taylor linen marched along the deck, taking the whole thing in stride just way she did everything else. Cool as celery stalk in ice water. Could anyone really be that calm and organized? It was a good guess that 'Itch' wasn't even in her vocabulary. You could bet that a little thing like a black velvet jewelry box wouldn't send her off the deep end. Maybe studying the bride was wrong thing to do. I needed to be more like this woman.

“So do you think Dale Worley will make it under that limbo bar while he's ogling our wedding planner?” I asked, nodding toward the groomsmen gathered around the pair of stewards holding a bamboo pole. A forty-something man, with a handlebar mustache, silk shirt and way-too-tight leather pants, leaned precariously backward. He aimed a toothy grin toward Kirsty.

Marie grimaced. “I think his pelvis is in serious jeopardy--eew!” She shielded her eyes as the man managed to spread his legs wider and began bobbing his butt like a bumblebee. “Who the hell is that guy?”

I frowned. “'Worley's Wheels.' You know, that car dealer that has the commercials with the talking animals.”

“No way. The llama wearing lip gloss and a bustier?”

“That one. Anyway, Dale's also a volunteer firefighter and pretty damned proud of it. Not that he ever gets near any flames. But he does love to ride the truck and handle the horn.”

“Yes.” Marie shuddered as we watched Worley stand upright and smooth the front of his leather pants. “I can see that he does. Let's go get something to eat before I'm tempted to push him over the rail.”

We maneuvered through the partygoers to the opposite side of the deck and Marie munched a shrimp-on-sourdough canapé while pointing toward Alcatraz Island and the Golden Gate beyond. The sky was turning a rosy gold as the sun sank toward the sea. My gaze lingered over Sausalito and Tiburon in the distance. I'd just caught a glimpse of a sailboat tacking toward the pier with a blondish man at the tiller, when the band suddenly stopped playing and people began to scream. And then a shout erupted behind us.

“Man overboard!”

The ship's horn began an ominous series of blasts.

“What the hell?” Marie stepped forward into the swarm of passengers surging toward the opposite rail and I followed. It was impossible to see what was causing the commotion. I leaned my head around a deck steward and saw that a line of uniformed crewmen had formed a human barricade, arms extended to keep the crowd back, while a trio of others grasped at a man's hands clinging to far side of the teak rail. The crowd parted enough so that I could see Patti Ann and her groom, “Cowboy” Kyle, watching in horror.

I inched forward, squeezing between people until I was beside Patti Ann, just as the crewman hauled the victim onto the deck. The crowd gasped in relief and a crescendo of applause began. Dale Worley. Why wasn't I surprised?

“Oh my Lo-ord,” the bride whispered, covering her face with her hands. “I knew he was going to fall, the fool. Drinking all that rum and then trying to climb up on the rail like a scene in the Tita-a-anic movie.” Patti shook her head, short curls bobbing. “King of the World, my Alabama ass! And just look what a jerk he's making of himself now.”

I strained to see the as the crew attempted to disperse the crowd. I stood on tiptoes, swayed, and then almost bumped into Kirsty Pelham who was entering notes into her ever-present Palm Pilot. Her voice was cool as the glass on a Mai Tai.

“One hundred and six feet,” she murmured, nodding her head with authority. Her pale hair skimmed her shoulders then swung back into place with military precision.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The distance from that rail to the cement pier below,” she said like she was figuring the cost of little ribbon-tied sacks of Jordan Almonds. She sighed and pressed the stylus pen to the buttons for another note. “That . . . um . . .” Kirsty glanced down at her PDA, “that Mr. Worley is going to be a challenge. There's no room for practical jokers in a wedding party.” She sighed and tapped her heavy framed glasses. “Still, he's here as a guest of the groom; what can I do? Make adjustments that's all.” Kirsty flashed me a warm smile. “I'm glad I can count on my bridesmaids to behave themselves.”

Behave? Oh jeez. I smiled back like an idiot, fighting a stupid memory of plaid skirts and nuns and my dubious distinction of being the only six-year old ever suspended from Holy Spirit School. But, in my defense, the kid I'd fought with had mooned me and dissed my grandma. I'd kick his butt again.

Marie arrived at my side just as a British voice spoke calmly over the P.A. system and the band began to play once more.

“This is Captain McNaughton with a reminder that we are to set sail for Seattle at nineteen-hundred, in exactly thirty-five minutes. It is our pleasure to now serve complementary drinks on the Lido Deck, aft.”

“Not to Dale Worley, I hope.” Marie smiled. “You know, they really should have just shouted, 'everyone duck, flying jackass coming down!'”

I nodded and then peered over the rail at the dizzying distance below; the sheer whitewashed side of the ship and narrow ribbon of murky seawater alongside the tar-covered cement pier. What would it have been, drowning or bone-shattering death on impact? I shivered. God. I'd been a trauma nurse too long.

“Still,” I said, feeling goose bumps lift along my forearms, “jackass or not, he could have been killed. Not the best way to start a cruise.”

***

We'd followed the crowd to the Lido Deck, when the P.A. crackled overhead once more. “Will Passenger Cavanaugh contact the Purser's Office? Darcy Cavanaugh, please.”

“What the heck?” It took me a few minutes to locate the courtesy phone; just inside the deck door and alongside yet another huge, surreal color photograph of bare feet. What was with all of those feet, anyway? While the call was being forwarded to the Purser's Office, Marie handed me the complimentary Sail Away Drink, a Golden Gate Pina Colada. She was obviously hell-bent on getting me wasted, but I didn't care if it helped the itching. Plus, I'd finally stopped thinking that every sailboat in San Francisco Bay was manned by a Federal Agent coming to propose. I hugged the receiver against my shoulder. What was this about? A mix up in the pre-boarding paperwork?

The drink was frosty cool and coconut sweet, and I bit into the pineapple wedge letting the juice dribble down my chin--a pretty clear indication of my blood alcohol level--as I waited for the call to connect. I licked my lips and then raised my eyebrows at Marie, pointing my glass toward the huge photograph on the wall behind us. “What's with all these stupid bare feet--” A voice came on the line before I could finish.

“Miss Cavanaugh? Cabin eighteen eighty-two?” The Purser questioned.

“That's me.”

I dropped the pineapple back into my glass and glanced at Marie again. She was looking as curious as I felt. What the heck was this? The British voice sounded hesitant, then apologetic and all of a sudden its tone made my skin start to itch.

“I hope there's no problem, Miss Cavanaugh. But I must advise you that there is a Federal Agent waiting in your cabin.”