Santa Cruise by Mary Higgins Clark Page A

offensive particles of food stuck to another person’s face, no matter how exalted the position of the stuckee.
    â€œEnter, Winston,” he called out.
    Winston entered the room in dramatic fashion,a tray with an open champagne bottle, two glasses, and two plates of hors d’oeuvres held over his head. A small smile played on his lips, indicating that he was very pleased with himself. But then he always was. He placed the tray on the coffee table and ceremoniously poured a glass of champagne for the Commodore.
    The Commodore inspected the selection of hors d’oeuvres—tiny potatoes sprinkled with caviar, smoked salmon, baked mushroom puffs in pastry shells, and sushi with dipping sauce. His face darkened.
    Winston looked alarmed. “Are you displeased, sir?”
    â€œNo pigs in a blanket?”
    A horrified expression came over Winston’s face. “Oh, sir,” he protested.
    The Commodore slapped him on the back and laughed heartily as he settled on the couch. “Only jesting, Winston. I know you would drop dead before you would ever serve such a middle-brow item. But they are tasty.”
    Winston didn’t comment, but he obviously didn’t agree. The same selection of hors d’oeuvres had been placed in all the guests rooms, a gesture that Winston felt was surely unappreciated by most of the cruisers. They’d probably have preferred popcorn, he thought. He placed one plate of horsd’oeuvres on the table and picked up the tray. Then he turned and began to cross the room. Before he had gone six steps the door of Eric’s room opened. Pulling it closed behind him, Eric gave the Commodore a blinding smile as he hurried to sit beside him on the couch.
    â€œSir, I hope I didn’t sound unpleasant a few minutes ago when you called me.” He tried to laugh. “Fact is, I stubbed my toe in the shower. I’d just been muttering something I won’t repeat when I heard your voice.”
    â€œThat’s perfectly all right, my boy,” the Commodore assured him as he bit into a mushroom puff. “It did enter my head that you sounded a bit cross, but a stubbed toe is the very devil.” A slight frown creased his forehead. “You’re not dressed for the evening. You’re running rather late, aren’t you?”
    Winston placed the second plate of hors d’oeuvres and a glass of champagne in front of Eric. I wonder if he’d rather have more of his potato chips, Winston thought disdainfully. I’ll have to inspect his room when I turn the bed down. The last thing I want is him ruining the Commodore’s guest bedroom with hidden junk food. It’s also interesting, Winston thought, that for someone who claimed to have just stepped out of the shower. Eric had put his daytime uniform back on. “Mr.Manchester,” he said, “Is there a problem with your dress uniform? Does it need pressing? I’d be happy to take care of it for you.”
    â€œNo,” Eric snapped. “I haven’t showered yet.”
    â€œBut I thought you stubbed your toe when you were showering,” the Commodore said.
    â€œI was getting ready to shower when I stubbed it,” Eric corrected himself quickly. “I knew you were waiting to have a glass of champagne. I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
    â€œVery well.” The Commodore turned to Winston. “That will be all, my good man.”
    Winston’s bow was pointedly aimed at the Commodore. “You have but to beckon, sir.”
    The Commodore beamed at Winston’s departing figure. He drained his glass of champagne and stood up. “I must run,” he declared. “Try not to be too long, Eric. I count on you to charm our guests.” He winked. “Especially the ladies.”
    Eric did not miss the note of admonition in his uncle’s voice. He knew he was being told that he ought to have been ready to join the passengers now. He also