DOUBLE KNOT (8 page)

All the eggs in one basket.

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” I said. “
Probability
is the middle man for all the money between the players and the bank.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s money in
and
out?”

“Correct,” he said.

“How in the world were fifty billionaires talked into letting
Probability
do their banking for them?”

“They love it, Davis. They’re gambling in international waters and their U.S. banks
won’t know a thing about it.”

And there was the brilliance of the plan. Uncle Sam and all.

“If all the money is on the phone, what happens if a V-thing is stolen?” I asked.

No Hair shook his head. “The money isn’t on the phone, Davis. Just the balances. The
money is in the bank.” He glanced at his watch.

“What happens if the system goes down and bank transactions aren’t recorded?”

“That,” No Hair said, “would be a problem, but it won’t happen either.”

“How do you know?”

“From what I understand, the computer system is state-of-the-art processing, designed
by the greatest nerds around, run by a geek squad in California, and it has four different
backup systems.” He checked the time again.

“Do you have somewhere better to be, No Hair?”

“Not better,” he said, “but I do need to run. Get back with me as soon as you can
on these.” He gave a nod to the stack of folders in front of me I could barely see
over. “And you can skip two of them.”

“Which two?” I began making arrangements to hoist myself and the babies out of the
chair.

“Your guests. We’re sneaking your mother in too late to load her into the system and
I’m pretty sure Fantasy is clean.”

“You never know.”

“Hey.” Again with the watch. “You might want to come with me. The Knot on Your Life
slot machines were delivered this morning. I’m on my way to sign off on them.”

You never have to ask me to look at a slot machine twice. “Why are they here?”

“To be programmed with player account numbers.”

“Who’s programming them? That sounds like a job for me.”

“It is a job for you.” He pointed at my Pea in the Pod sweater.

Right.

“And you’ve been in Pine Apple,” he said.

Right.

“And doing your Bianca business.”

Right.

“So?” I asked. “Who’s programming the slot machines?”

“The Cayman bankers.”

Something stopped me dead in my tracks. “Here?”

We were at the door of No Hair’s office. “Yes,” he said. “Here. Why?”

“I don’t know.” And by I don’t know, I meant I had a funny feeling. “It seems crazy
to me that they’d do it here. Wouldn’t it be easier for them to program the slot machines
at their own facilities? Or on the ship? Why here? How is it a good idea to let Cayman
bankers in our house, No Hair?”

“Davis.” He patted my back. “You worry too much.”

As it turned out, I didn’t worry nearly enough. Not anywhere near enough.

For the next week I put portfolios together on
Probability
’s guest’s guests and the extended security detail. Nothing popped. I peeked in every
medicine cabinet, under every bed, and high and low in every closet. Before
Probability
pulled up anchor and left the Mississippi Sound, I could tell you where everyone
on this ship placed in their fifth-grade spelling bee and their mother’s mother’s
maiden name. But somewhere along the line, I’d missed something. I knew I had (because
No Hair was being held prisoner) and I knew where I missed it. It was when No Hair
and I left his office and took a service elevator to the slot machine staging area
below the casino. I got a little caught up in how much fun the Knot on Your Life slot
machines were—I lined up the anchors three times!—when I should have been paying attention
to the Cayman bankers. They were the only people on
Probability
I didn’t know. But they knew me. And they knew No Hair. Because we’d let them in
our house.

EIGHT

Anderson Cooper was a thief.

I woke up Sunday morning on (
Probability
) the high end of the abject terror scale. I’d spent a restless night in a strange
bed with petrifying images of No Hair having dominated the snips of dreams I sneaked
in between tossing, turning, and trading places with Fantasy. Between the two of us,
we might have pieced together three hours of sleep. Before I could shake the cobwebs,
I was hit with bacon and a $5,000
Probability
casino chip. A gift from Anderson Cooper. I was familiar with (bacon) casino chips,
so it took me a minute to understand how strange, and miraculous, it was to see one
in my alternate universe. I was locked in 704 looking at something that belonged outside
of 704. My head fell back on the pillows when I remembered the velvet gift bag on
a mirrored table in the sitting room. Rumored to have more than $25,000 worth of goodies
in it, including a Roberto Coin pave diamond bangle bracelet. A welcome gift. Which
probably included the casino coin. “Have you been snooping, Anderson? Did you open
my prize?”

She balanced on the babies and pawed the chip, flipping it on my chest, wanting praise.
I tapped her nose twice in thanks. I picked it up. “What did you do with the Roberto
Coin bangle, young lady?”

She’d shown her burglar proclivities way back. It started with a necklace. My older
sister and only sibling, Meredith, and my niece Riley, who lived in Pine Apple a block
from my parents, came to visit one weekend when Anderson was just a few months old.
Meredith busted into our bedroom the first morning at the absolute crack of dawn.
“My diamond necklace is gone.”

“What?” The two-babies news was very new, the reason Meredith had come—we needed something
to celebrate—and it all came flying at me too fast that morning. “Is Mother okay?”

“Dammit, Davis!” She was staring and pointing at my still relatively flat stomach.

Was this about the twins?

She snatched her necklace from the bedspread I was under. “Do you not have enough
jewelry of your own?”

Anderson stole all kinds of goodies and brought them to me. If she thought it was
important to me and if she could carry it, she snatched it. She was forever taking
things from Bradley—his socks, his keys, food off his plate when his head was turned,
then landing them in my lap. “Be glad,” Bradley said, “she’s a thief and not a hunter.
If she were a hunter she’d bring you birds, gophers, and snakes.”

I’ll take pizza crusts, diamonds, and casino chips over gophers every day of the week.

I said good morning to the babies, promised them I’d do whatever it took to keep them
safe until we were back on dry land, palmed the casino chip, and tried to prioritize
what all I wanted to accomplish in the first five minutes of my second day of captivity
on a luxury cruise liner. (Get out, bust No Hair out, and go home. All in five minutes.)
Swinging my legs off the bed, I made a more reasonable game plan: calm myself down,
somehow wrangle into my maternity yoga pants, then find the bacon. I’d figure out
how to get out of 704 and rescue No Hair after breakfast. It was, after all, the most
important meal of the day. This would be a big day. It would take a big breakfast.

With a heavy heart, I brushed my teeth, my eyes not leaving the reflection of my cat’s
eyes in the mirror. The same mirror that had broken the news of our imprisonment.
The questions that had haunted my sleep hit me harder and faster in the light of day:
What all could I accomplish without engaging the deadly punishment clause of the letter?
What was this about, who was behind it, where was No Hair, and was someone in 704
aiding and abetting? Then there was the biggest question of them all: Could I accomplish
anything
without my mother catching on? Anderson watched my dark introspection. “Who came
in here?” I asked through toothpaste. “Who left us a letter?”

She yawned.

* * *

Good Lord, my mother owned a swimsuit. And she was wearing it.

“Mother?”

She looked up from the frying pan full of bacon and said, “Fantasy slept on the couch
with a bathroom towel bar, of all things, and there’s not one knife in this kitchen.”

“What, Mother? What? Start with the knives.”

“There’s not a knife in this whole kitchen. Butter knives. That’s it. Not a knife
one. I’d like to know how I’m supposed to cut up the chickens without a knife or kitchen
scissors.”

“Why would you
want
to cut up chickens, Mother?” I pulled open the drawer that had been full of knives
last night. I’d used one to slice ham. “And what are kitchen scissors?”

“You know good and well what kitchen scissors are, Davis Way, and how is it you cut
up your chicken when you make chicken?”

“Mother, I don’t
make
chicken. I
order
chicken. And I cut it with a knife when it’s on my
plate
.”

“Well, you’re plum out of luck because we don’t have any knives.”

There were knives in this kitchen last night. Carving knifes. Steak knives. Butcher
knives. Big knives, little knives, and now no knives. The drawer was empty.

“Have you looked in there?” Mother interrupted my panic attack, waving a plastic spatula
at the refrigerator. “That’s the biggest Frigidaire I’ve ever seen in my life. Two
people could fit in there. Can you imagine the electric bill for this boat? And there’s
enough food in this kitchen to feed an army. I took one look in there and I knew good
and well why the cook didn’t show up. That’s a lot of cooking. It’s a good thing I’m
here, Davis. A good thing.”

“Yes, it is, Mother.”

“I woke up famished. How’d you sleep? I slept better than I have in six months. Must
be the boat rocking or this ocean air. Are you hungry, Davis? And did you even think
about combing your hair or putting on a housecoat before you came out here? Are those
your pajamas? Did you not bring pajamas to wear?” She shook her greasy spatula at
me. “I don’t know what happened to you. When you girls were little you wore nothing
but freshly pressed cotton pajamas.”

I never understood ironing something you wore to bed, I don’t miss cotton pajama sets,
who took the knives, and I had to hold it together. “Let’s start over.”

“Come again?”

I sat down in a white chair at the table. “Good morning, Mother.”

She hesitated. Then she poured a steaming cup of coffee and placed it in front of
me. “Good morning, Davis.”

I pushed the coffee away with a whimper and said, “No thank you.”

“You young people and your picky eating habits.”

“Not drinking coffee doesn’t make me a picky eater, Mother.” Of my list of pregnancy
sacrifices, coffee was very high up the list. When the babies are five minutes old,
I’m going to have someone hook me up to a dark roast pipeline.

“Suit yourself,” she said. “It’s the Starbucks and you’re missing it.”

I was missing the Starbucks and she was missing the reason. Mother refusing to acknowledge
my pregnancy was one of the two objectives my father had when he planned this Mother-Daughter
Getaway—he had no idea what he’d gotten Mother into—so we could “work it out.”

How? How was I supposed to force my fifty-nine-year-old mother, who’d just fought
the hardest battle of her life, to admit that life goes on? Number one, hers. Number
two, these
new
lives. Her grandchildren. She woke up from her treatment and there I was, bigger
than life, out to there, and she didn’t say a word. She still hadn’t said a word.
We’d all tried to broach the subject and she’d changed it immediately. “Give her time,”
my father said. “She’s not out of the woods yet. Even if she were it’s going to be
a good long while before she feels out. She’s not ready to talk about it and you have
to give her time.” How much? The babies would be here in less than three months.

Have you
ever
?

“While we’re alone,” I looked over my shoulder, “let me talk to you for a minute,
Mother.” Every bit of her froze. “About our cruise.” She melted.

“What about it?”

How to put this. “There’s a chance we’ll be locked in here again today.” And tomorrow.
And the next day.

“This is very unusual, Davis. I don’t quite know what to think. I doubt this would
have happened if your father was here.”

“I don’t know how Daddy could have prevented a computer system from going down or
what he could do to get it back up.”

“Don’t you speak ill of your father to me, Davis Way.” I wasn’t and the bacon was
killing me. If I reached for a slice from the piled-high platter, she wouldn’t hesitate
to slap my hand with her hot spatula. I got to eat when Mother told me I could. Since
the day I was born. “I’ll tell you something about your father. When the going gets
tough, he gets going.”

This was an indirect reference to Mother’s four months of chemo and radiation. Daddy
had refused help outside our immediate family. He opened the back door for casseroles
and pound cakes from Mother’s Sunday School class, but he refused to hire a nurse
or household help. Related to Mother’s illness and the running of their home, if he
didn’t do it, Meredith or I did. Although, truth be told, early in my pregnancy I
slept as much as Mother did, so I wasn’t much help. And Mother telling me Daddy was
a good man was a total waste of her breath. For one, I’ve worshiped him since the
day I was born. I was a police officer in Pine Apple for seven years, working side
by side with my police chief father, so for two, she didn’t need to tell me Daddy
had my back. I knew it better than anyone. Regardless, Mother suggesting our current
situation wouldn’t be happening if our hero were here wasn’t exactly true. Daddy would
have been just as helpless to see this coming, stop it, or correct it any more than
I was. (And I’ll tell you something else. Mother has ridden Daddy like a broom since
the day I was born—his disinterest in her garden/hairdo/bunions, his interest in football/muscle
cars/Fox News. All my life, I’ve listened to my mother complain to my father about
the way he blinks: “Maybe if you didn’t blink so
slowly
, Samuel, you wouldn’t blink so
often
.” This “Your Father is the Greatest Man in the World” business was fresh and new.)
(Welcome, and brand new.)

She held the last of the bacon over the frying pan until the final drips fell, then
flipped it onto the platter. “Well, personally, Davis? I don’t care a thing about
going anywhere. My bedroom is beautiful and so is my powder room. I even have my own
coffee pot and a nice rocking chair with a big wide footstool on my balcony. Very
comfortable. I woke up at six, like I always do, and made myself a hot cup of coffee
and took it outside for my Daily Devotionals. It was peaceful and beautiful, and now
I know why so many people go on the Carnival cruises. The ocean is very soothing.
I don’t give a care about that casino or the public pools or the restaurants. Public
pools are filthy and I don’t appreciate how modern restaurants go so far out of their
way to serve the oddest food they can, things I can’t even pronounce, and everything
cooked in olive oil, like there’s something wrong with Crisco, and rosemary and pesto,
whatever that is, and saffron all over everything. A good cook needs two spices. Are
you listening to me, Davis?”

“Two spices. Salt and pepper.”

“That’s right. And all this raw fish is ridiculous. One long weekend in the hospital
with a good bout of food poisoning from raw shellfish and you young people will get
over your love of raw fish.”

“I don’t love raw fish, Mother.”

“Country-style steak and gravy, mashed potatoes, a pan of dinner rolls, and a fresh
salad tossed with Miracle Whip and a squeeze of lemon is a fine dinner. Maybe a nice
cobbler for dessert. I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t enjoy a dinner like that.
What’s wrong with that, Davis? You tell me what’s wrong with that.”

“Nothing, Mother.”

In fact, nothing at all. I was fifteen, back in Mother’s kitchen, and officially starving
to death.

“We have everything we need right here, plenty of space, plenty of food, and plenty
to do. You might have noticed I’m dressed for reading my magazines by the pool today.”

“You look very nice, Mother.”

“Thank you.”

The skirt on the swimsuit went almost to her knees. The matching floral cover up with
silver tassel ties covered everything else. On her feet, orthopedic flip-flops.

“Now, there is a problem.” Mother poured the bacon grease into a ceramic bowl and
there wasn’t a doubt in my mind she’d find a use for every glob of it and figure out
a way to pack any leftovers and take them home. A lump of cloudy congealed bacon grease
was the first ingredient in most of Mother’s recipes. She poured several dozen scrambled
eggs into the hot bacon dregs and began whipping them into shape. I’d never been hungrier
in my life than I was at this exact moment in time. “And I’m talking about a problem
other than your cat.” She gave me The Eye, dropping her chin and cocking one eyebrow.
“It’s that loudmouth whiner. I’m not listening to that bull hockey all day long.”

“What do you want me to do with her, Mother? Throw her overboard?”

“That girl needs to stuff a sock in it.” She turned the eggs with her spatula until
they were perfect, then tipped them onto a platter and sprinkled a pound of grated
cheese on top. She stood over the eggs and said, “That one’s lost her marbles.”

Jessica DeLuna, the loudmouth whiner who’d lost her marbles, filled the kitchen door
wearing a plush white
Probability
bathrobe, wide open, belt trailing behind her, so we could see her pajamas: a blood
red demi bra and matching panties. “Has anyone seen my clothes?” She tipped her head
back and sniffed the air. “I smell crab cakes.”