“No!” she said again, shoving at him.
“The lady told you to leave her alone,” I said. “I suggest you do what she says.”
He ignored me, and tried to pull the young woman closer to him.
My old martial arts teacher would have been proud of me. I punched the Stooge in the solar plexus. He let go of the young woman and staggered back, doubled over. While he was still off balance I grabbed one of his arms, twisted it behind his back, and forced him first to his knees and then flat on the floor. Then I sat on him.
“You might want to call someone,” I said to the young woman, who, according to the name tag on her uniform, was Léonie Brunot, from France. She was standing openmouthed.
“Lemme go.” The Stooge flailed his free arm uselessly.
“What’s going on here?”
I looked up to see First Officer Martin a few feet away.
“This man tried to assault Léonie.” I stood up and stepped away from the Stooge, figuring that if he tried to retaliate against me or resume harassing Léonie the first officer would have to intervene.
“I was jus’ bein’ friendly.” The Stooge rolled over on his back and began staring at his wrist.
“He’s drunk, and he was groping her, and he paid no attention when she told him very politely to stop.”
The first officer studied the Stooge for a few moments, then glanced at Léonie. She was biting her lip and hunching her shoulders.
“Had a bit too much, have we, Mr. Evans?” The first officer’s smile was definitely forced. I stepped aside and let him help the Stooge up. “I’ll just make sure you get to your cabin safe and sound. Léonie, I was looking for someone to do a cleanup just outside the dining door.”
I was opening my mouth to protest, but I saw Léonie shake her head almost imperceptibly. So I held my tongue and watched as the first officer summoned the elevator and heaved Evans the Stooge inside.
“Thank you,” she said when the elevator door had closed.
“He’s not going to do anything, is he?” I asked.
“Against a passenger?” She gave a small snort of disbelief.
“But—”
“Léonie?” It was the off-duty crew member who’d come to Grandfather’s lecture, and had apparently made his way past Lake Puke to the boarding lobby. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”
I knew enough French to be reasonably certain that he’d just asked what was going on.
“L’ivrogne m’attrapé encore,” Léonie said. “La dame m’a aidé.”
I wasn’t sure what ivrogne and attrapé were, but I had a feeling she was telling the new guy what had happened. I was pretty sure encore meant again, which suggested this wasn’t her first encounter with the Stooge. And the last part meant that I’d helped her; I got that much.
The newcomer—Serge Charlier, from Belgium, according to his name tag—drew in a breath between his teeth and shook his head before turning to me.
“Thank you very much, madame,” he said. Like Léonie, he had only the faintest of accents. He opened his mouth as if to say more and then stopped himself. Clearly speaking ill of passengers, even a drunken one who’d attempted to molest a young woman, was frowned on. “Thank you,” he said again. He turned to Léonie.
“Le capitaine?” he asked, softly.
“Encore bourré.”
Whatever bourré was, it didn’t seem to make Serge happy. He winced and inhaled through his teeth with a slight hissing noise. Léonie shrugged with Gallic eloquence. At least I think I’d have found it eloquent if I’d had the slightest idea what they were talking about.
“I will go and fetch a mop.” She turned slightly.
“You are off duty, chérie.”
“As are you.”
“But I, at least, have had some enjoyment from the evening. Permit me to deal with cette bêtise.”
He gave her a warm smile that made me wonder if they were more than mere shipmates. Léonie nodded, murmured thanks with a glance that included both of us, and departed through the door that led down to deck zero. Serge went back into the passageway. I peeked around the corner and saw him taking a mop and bucket out of a small closet and disappearing into the lavatory.
I pulled out my phone and texted Caroline.
“Keep everyone in the dining room for a few more minutes,” I typed. “Cleanup in the hallway.”
I waited until she’d texted back “OK,” then made my own way to the elevator.
The elevator took forever. I contemplated taking the stairs. No. I’d start my staircase-based fitness regimen tomorrow. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes instead.
“Meg? Are you all right?” Mother had appeared at my side.
“Just tired,” I said. “Sneaking out on Grandfather’s Q and A?”
“Beating the crowd.” She nodded at the elevator.
An idea occurred to me.
“Mother, have you met a young crew member named Léonie?” I asked.
“Why yes,” she said. “Very helpful—and so chic!”
I wasn’t sure how Léonie managed to be chic while wearing the standard Pastime crew member’s white gold-trimmed uniform, which looked rather like what an ambitious banana republic dictator with no fashion sense would invent for his palace guard to wear. But as Mother and I had long ago agreed, I had almost no appreciation for or awareness of chic. “You didn’t get that from my side of the family,” she was fond of remarking. Definitely not. Mother was not only effortlessly chic herself, but widely accepted as the ultimate arbiter thereof. Of course, now that she’d met Cordelia, my long-lost paternal grandmother, who was not shabby herself in the chic department, Mother had decided that Grandfather alone was to blame for my stubborn indifference to fashion.
“I think Léonie could use our help,” I said aloud. “She had an unfortunate interaction with one of the Stooges.” I brought Mother up to date on what I’d just witnessed outside the main dining room.
“Which of the Stooges?” she asked when I’d finished.
“His name is Evans.”
“Since I haven’t been introduced to any of them—thank goodness—that doesn’t really answer my question.”
I thought for a moment.
“The one with the thinning reddish hair,” I said. “As opposed to the one with the perpetual five o’clock shadow or the one who got slightly shortchanged in the chin department.”
“I know the one you mean,” she said. “I think we should make some effort to learn the other two young men’s names. It will make a much better effect when we eventually have to report them to the proper authorities.”
“I like the way you think,” I said. “But if possible, I’d like to keep them from doing anything we’d need to report to the authorities. Because while the authorities, in the form of First Officer Martin, are almost certainly aware that at least one Stooge is no choirboy, I get the feeling they’re encouraged to bend over backward to keep paying customers happy. So help me keep an eye out for Léonie, will you?”
“Of course. And I’ll spread the word. And perhaps we should let her young man know.”
“Her young man?”
“Serge, the sous chef. Such a nice young man.”
“He already knows.” I found myself wondering how Mother knew this. Less than a day on board and she was already au courant with the crew’s love lives. “So if anything happens to the obnoxious Evans—”
“We will ensure that Serge has an alibi.”
“By the way,” I added. “Your French is better than mine. What does ‘bourré’ mean? ‘Encore bourré,’ to be precise.”
“‘Drunk again.’”
I blinked.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Of course—why?”
“Isn’t there anything that sounds like ‘bourré’?”
“There’s ‘beurré,’” she said. “Which literally means ‘buttered.’ But it’s also slang for ‘drunk.’ Who was using the word, and about whom?”
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p; “Léonie applied it to the captain,” I said. “And not just ‘bourré’—‘encore bourré.’ That’s not encouraging.”
“Agreed,” she said. “Worrisome. Although that probably explains why poor Mr. Martin has been looking so stressed. If the captain is a tippler, so much more of the burden of running the ship falls on the first officer.”
“Good point. I will think more charitably of Martin the next time I see him struggling to make polite small talk with passengers.”
Mother had taken out her phone and was pressing a few numbers. “Penelope? We have a project.”
I felt less worried about Léonie.
Back at the staterooms I laid out pajamas for the boys, and made sure the toothbrushes and toothpaste were clearly visible. I picked up a few things, although luckily Josh and Jamie been so busy running around that they hadn’t had much time to mess up anything. I turned down the beds. I was a little surprised that the crew hadn’t already done that. And disappointed that they hadn’t left behind any of the towels folded into monkeys or swans or elephants that I’d seen in all the pictures from friends who’d previously taken cruises. Maybe some other cruise line had dibs on that idea. Damn. I’d been looking forward to seeing how the boys would react to the towel origami.
I realized if I sat down, I’d fall asleep. I could open the sliding glass door onto our little balcony and see if the fresh air helped. More likely I’d end up falling asleep in the deck chair.
I locked up the cabins and headed for the sun deck. Which would be a moon deck by now, I supposed.
I found Janet standing at the stern, leaning over the rail, staring at the ship’s wake.
“Evening,” I said. “Mind if I join you?”
“Sure.”
We both watched the wake for a while. I detected the lingering scent of herbs—sage, cedar, and possibly lavender. Either Janet had eccentric taste in perfume or Rose Noire had managed to do her smudging. I breathed deeply and imagined the smoke enveloping the ship in a fragrant protective cloud.
I was trying to decide why my imagination chose to tint the protective cloud purple when Janet suddenly shook herself, looked away from the wake—it was rather hypnotic—and spoke up.
“Is your dad … um … maybe a little too interested in murder?”
Chapter 9
“Murder?” I echoed.
“Sorry, that didn’t come out right. I meant—”
“You’re not saying anything my family hasn’t said,” I told her. “He reads a lot of mysteries—some would say too many—and as a result, he’s probably just a little overeager to jump to the conclusion that a crime is being committed.”
“Angie’s like that.” Janet grinned and shook her head. “The rest of us are all ‘Oh, look, what a pretty garden!’ and she’s like ‘What a great place to bury a body!’ Of course, with her it’s a professional hazard.”
“Same with Dad, actually,” I said. “Given that he’s the local medical examiner, suspecting murder is a legitimate part of his job—or at least keeping his eye open for clues that will tell him the real manner and cause of death. And to do him justice, a couple of times he’s alerted the police to a genuine homicide that a less careful medical examiner would have put down to accident, suicide, or natural causes.”
“Yeah, that’s a good thing.” Janet paused, then blurted out, “But I’m a little worried that he’s getting Angie riled up about the idea that Nancy’s death might not have been suicide.”
“Why? Were the circumstances suspicious in any way?”
“They seemed pretty cut and dried to me.” She looked upset. “Nancy was over the moon for a few weeks because her agent had gotten offers from three different publishers. We had a champagne celebration. Hell, the rest of us were over the moon, too—the end of a seven-year publishing drought. And then the publishers withdrew their offers, one after another. Her agent finally got one of them to say why, and that was when Nancy found out Desiree had heard she was shopping the manuscript around and accused her of plagiarism. And for some reason the publishers believed it.”
“How did Desiree even know she was shopping around a manuscript?” I asked. “Were they friends?”
“Not that I know of. They’d met—Nancy and Tish were on a committee with Desiree eight or ten years ago, helping organize a local writing event. According to them, Desiree disappeared whenever there was any actual work to be done.”
“Not the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“Hardly. After that, I think they steered clear of her. Which wasn’t that hard—Desiree drifted away from most of the local writing organizations when she figured out they weren’t going to make her the boss of anything unless she did at least a moderate amount of work. So I have no idea how Desiree knew Nancy was submitting the book unless…”
She broke off and looked uncomfortable.
“Unless maybe one of the publishers told her,” I said.
“And why would they do that?” Janet looked miserable. “The only reason I can think of is that Desiree had submitted a manuscript to one of the publishers that looked a lot like Nancy’s. And that publisher cried foul and warned the others.”
“You think maybe Nancy did plagiarize Desiree’s manuscript? Or was it maybe Desiree doing the plagiarizing?”
“I can’t see how either would be possible. They barely knew each other, and Nancy and Tish both disliked Desiree. Intensely.”
“Understandably,” I said.
“So I have no idea how Nancy could possibly have seen one of Desiree’s manuscripts, much less stolen it. The only thing I can figure out is that maybe they both independently came up with the very same idea. And instead of realizing that it was a random coincidence, Desiree’s publisher jumped to the conclusion that it was plagiarism.”
“You think maybe Desiree helped them make that jump? Because from what you’ve said, it sounds like her style.”
“Could be. But as far as I know, that was the only unsolved mystery related to Nancy’s death. She was profoundly depressed—not only upset that the deal for this series fell through, but also worried that the plagiarism accusation would kill any future deals. Especially after her agent dropped her. She knew she’d have an uphill battle, getting another agent, and building a new career from scratch, and she’d probably have to do it under a whole new name, because her own would be poison. And then a couple of weeks later, she didn’t answer the phone, and Kate went over to check on her and found she’d taken a whole bottle of pills.”
“What kind of pills?” The doctor’s daughter in me wanted specifics.
“I don’t know. Kate would know, or Angie. Something that it’s not a good idea to take a whole bottle of.”
Which might explain Dad’s interest in the case. He’d recently gone to a medical conference on suicide prevention and had, as usual, come home full of case studies and statistics. Fortunately, Mother repressed his attempts to share the case studies over dinner, but she let him have his head when it came to statistics. One that stuck in my mind was that less than 15 percent of people who attempt suicide with prescription or over-the-counter drugs succeed. “It used to be relatively easy to knock yourself off with barbiturates,” he’d said. “Which is one reason they’re no longer widely prescribed. The benzodiazepines that have replaced them won’t usually kill you unless you combine them with alcohol or an opioid. But a lot of people don’t know that.”
So perhaps his suspicions were aroused by the fact that Nancy had been one of the 15 percent who were unlucky enough to succeed. I didn’t see how he could make a leap from that to murder.
And perhaps I should have a word with him about stirring up someone who was probably still trying to get past the loss of a good friend.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said. “Maybe he was just doing what-ifs, and Angie misinterpreted them.”
“Thanks.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “This trip was supposed to help us heal. But thanks to Desiree it’s ripping off the scabs all over again
.”
“And Dad’s not helping.”
“Actually, he might be helping Angie.” Janet put her fingers to her temples and began massaging them as if trying to soothe a headache. “Angie has always been the one who wanted to find out more about what happened. I think the rest of us don’t really want to think about it. How much pain Nancy must have been in to want to kill herself. How we didn’t see it in time to stop her. To help her. But we all deal with grief differently. Maybe Angie needs to talk about it with someone, and maybe your dad’s the right someone.”
“I’ll make sure he understands the situation,” I said.
Just then I heard the ding of an arriving text and pulled out my phone.
“Michael and the boys are back at the cabin,” I said. “I should go make sure Josh and Jamie don’t stay up too much later.”
“Yes, we want them well rested. They’re going to help me with my sword fighting right after lunch. Along with that very dashing husband of yours, on whom I freely admit I had a crush back in the day. You know, unless my memory is worse than I thought it was, it’s been … well, a while since Porfiria, Queen of the Jungle was on.”
“It was pre-twins,” I said. “Except for the reunion specials. I think he had to do at least one of those when the boys were tiny.”
“And he still looks good. Not totally unchanged, but very little changed, and possibly for the better. But you know what I like best about the present-day Michael?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“That he married you. An attractive but essentially normal woman. Not some anorexic, Botoxed blond starlet.”
I had to laugh.
“Yeah, I have to admit, I’ve always found his preference for me one of his more endearing qualities.”
As we wished each other a good night, she sounded less down than she had at first. I hoped venting to me had helped. Then I went back to the cabins to supervise the boys’ bedtime. Which went surprisingly well. All the miniature golf and running up and down the stairs had a good effect. They were asleep almost as soon as their heads touched the pillows.
Terns of Endearment (Meg Langslow Mysteries) Page 7