* * *
Humiliating. That was Maybeck’s first thought as he regarded himself in the locker room’s full-length mirror. He looked like a dishwasher. He thought of himself as an artist, so the new look—actually a baker’s outfit—was as disturbing as it was unfamiliar. He had to look at himself several times before he recognized himself. Then he sucked it up and followed the memorized route to reach the ship’s walk-in refrigerators. The area was sparkling clean—crates of juices, drinks, cereals, flour, oats, rice, pasta all stacked into towering structures twelve feet high and broken into aisles every twenty feet. The area was chaotic, as last-minute boarding and stocking of dry goods, fruits, vegetables, meats, and dairy products turned it into a hub of activity. The perfect time for a little spying. The only time all the giant walk-in refrigerators and freezers, each the size of a one-car garage, would be left unlocked and accessible. There were more than twelve such cold-storage units to search. For the sake of security, Maybeck and Willa would perform the task together—one inside, one standing watch outside.
Maleficent needed a cold environment. It wasn’t exactly a weakness, but it was a vulnerability. She wouldn’t melt like the Wicked Witch of the West if she warmed up, but her powers were greatly diminished—no more flaming fireballs, no more erecting corrals with just the flick of a wrist. The warmer her surroundings, the more “human” she became. When jailed, her cell had been kept at seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit, and she’d been little more than a green-skinned, jumpsuited woman with a superiority complex. If she were hiding on the Dream, the refrigerators and freezers seemed a natural place to search.
The refrigerators were more like vaults; large, dimly lit spaces stacked tightly with crates of food. The first one Maybeck entered was devoted to fish, and the smell caused him to nearly vomit. The cold cut through him like a knife. A single tube light emitted a bluish hue, turning the frozen fillets and shrimp a sickly color. Knowing the green fairy’s deviousness, Maybeck heaved aside stacks of crates that might be disguising an interior space. He pulled and twisted a tower of ten plastic containers of halibut to where they opened like a door to more stacked crates. These too he wrestled to one corner, then peered into the very center of the island of multicolored containers. Solid. No hidden space at its center.
He worked the freezer’s perimeter, his teeth beginning to chatter, the tips of his fingers hurting along with his ears. Too cold? he wondered. Could Maleficent survive in such a frozen space? Then another thought gripped him: did he put anything past her?
Willa’s coughing brought him back. With no time to return the heavy towers of crates to their original positions, he instead snagged a crate of halibut and struggled to carry it into the aisle. As he planted it on the concrete floor, a crew member entered, wheeling white crates.
“Cod,” the man said.
“Got it,” Maybeck said.
The crew member worked the hand truck to dislodge the crates and then left. Maybeck heaved the stacks back into place, shoved the cod into the corner, and left the freezer.
He shook his head at Willa, letting her know he’d found nothing.
“If you think about it,” he said quietly, “she’d never be hanging around when it’s this busy down here.”
“Yes,” she said. “I have thought about it. So have Philby and Finn. But this is also the best time for us—for you and me. It’s busy. No one knows exactly who belongs and who doesn’t. Maybe all we’re looking for is evidence.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
“I’ll take the next one,” she said.
“The stacks are heavy,” Maybeck said.
“I’ll manage.”
“I’m just saying…”
“I know what you’re saying. And I’m saying I’ll be all right.”
“All right. Whatever. I was just trying to—”
“Yes? Well, don’t.”
“Pardon me for living.”
“Pardon me for being a girl, but I think I can manage.” Willa entered the next space—a refrigerator. Maybeck stood guard, checking his watch to make sure they wouldn’t be late to the Sail-Away Celebration. He coughed loudly as an older kitchen worker approached pushing a hand truck laden with bricks of butter.
“Don’t just stand around,” the man told him. “There’re more hand trucks on the dock. Get the lead out!”
“Yes, sir,” Maybeck said.
The man looked at him curiously. It occurred to Maybeck—a little late—that maybe the use of “sir” was overdoing it.