Death on the Diversion

by Patricia McLinn

  She departed with a cheerful wave.

  Testy.

  Uh-huh.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next three days we stopped at three ports, each on its own volcanic island among the Canary Islands. Eristo celebrated with towel camels on my bed.

  I still heard that tune the musicians had played that I swore I knew, but couldn’t identify. That unnamed earworm was the main irritant of these pleasant few days.

  Either Petronella was relaxing or I was getting used to her.

  We joined excursions the first two days touring islands. Seated in what the guides called motor coaches and I’d call a bus. Taking photos through windows or at the predetermined stops. Sitting among our fellow passengers.

  Some of our fellow passengers.

  We didn’t see Odette and the Marry-Go-Rounders or Catherine and Bob or the spa girls.

  We met wonderful people from all over the world, yet with a strong streak from the Midwest. Friendly, funny, and no-nonsense. Not only salt of the earth, but with a dash of pepper.

  It made me so homesick that the first night I wrote a long email to my parents, musing about possibly moving back to the region. They’d love the email whenever they got it, though who knew when that would be. You guessed it, no internet.

  On the tours, around the pool, playing trivia, these people were reminders of my childhood. A species that had been rare in my past fifteen years. They now seemed almost as exotic as the black-sand beaches, frozen lava fields, collapsed volcanoes, and ash-smothered landscapes outside the bus — excuse me, motor coach — windows.

  And my, oh my, did I learn about cruising. These seasoned travelers talked cruising like it was fantasy football league.

  What website offers the most up to date information. Which ship’s limping along toward refurbishment, which one recently came out of a rehab glowing and renewed. How and when to get deals. Wait until the last minute and take what you get? Book far ahead and be locked in? Is it worth it to own stock? Are onboard credits or price reduction better value?

  Best itineraries? Swear by a travel agent or go it alone? Use the cruise line for plane tickets or book your own? And then you get the truly important choices, like early or late seating for dinner, which shows to attend, the odds of winning at the casino or bridge or bingo?

  If anyone sets up a scoring system, Cruising with Experts could sweep the seas.

  I enjoyed these people a lot.

  Still, by the third island, I missed Aunt Kit’s narrower but deeper dives into the surroundings.

  Absent her organization, I still yearned for more exposure to the natives than a solitary tour guide.

  With a bit of bait and switch, I bundled Petronella off on a tour of the island of La Palma, then I walked into the port town of Santa Cruz. I wandered the streets, snapped photos of flowers and architecture, stopped at the church Christopher Columbus last prayed in before heading toward the unknown, contemplating how unanswered prayers — since his were likely for safe arrival in the East Indies — could open new worlds.

  I was contemplating that unoriginal thought and vowing to close off the topic of my future for the rest of the day when I heard the name “Leah.”

  The speaker sounded American. I didn’t recognize the female voice and, sure, there could be other Leahs around. I stepped behind a tall spinner rack of calendars featuring Canary Island sights anyway. That way I could hide if Leah was there or eavesdrop if she wasn’t.

  “…I’m sure it’s her. I did my research and I’m positive,” the voice said.

  “That’s fine, darling. But what are you going to do with the information?” Ralph. I was sure of it. Almost sure.

  I peeked around a calendar featuring an aerial view of Teneguía volcano.

  Ralph. And Maya. I suppose I hadn’t recognized her voice because I’d heard it only when it was clogged with tears.

  She looked a lot better when she wasn’t crying.

  “I want her to know that I know. She thinks she’s so high and mighty. But I want her to know.”

  He sighed. “Can’t you let it go? I never should have agreed to this cruise. You said you were okay with it, but—”

  “I would be okay if she weren’t so vicious. She’s a horrible, horrible person. Do you know what she said to that poor woman who waits hand and foot on that bigshot author?”

  Excuse me?

  Having completely misrepresented the situation, Maya continued, “Not that Petunia or whatever her name is understood the slam when Leah said—”

  “I don’t know what she said and that’s the way I want to keep it. You’ve got to stop obsessing about her. Sometimes I feel like I’m still married to the woman. That’s how much you let her into our lives.”

  “Let her in? She pushes in. She won’t stay out.”

  She continued on in that vein as they left the store, turning to the right. I caught a glimpse of Ralph’s weary profile before they passed out of sight.

  As I left my spot behind the spinner rack, I caught the expression of the man behind the counter. It needed no translation. Crazy tourist came through loud and clear. At least there was a twinkle in his eyes.

  It was the twinkle that made me buy that volcano calendar. One of my young nephews would love it.

  I had a leisurely lunch at a sidewalk café several blocks off the main street, surrounded by locals.

  Maya and Ralph stayed in my head, though.

  Maya, especially. And not only because of the crack about Petronella waiting on me hand and foot.

  I wished I knew her makeup secret, because no sign remained of the blotchy, tear-tracked puffiness. If it looked as good on camera as it did in the harsh overhead light of the little store—

  Never mind.

  Old habit not yet broken.

  At the end of this cruise, I wouldn’t need to worry about how I looked on camera.

  In fact, whatever I did in the future, avoiding TV interviews would be advisable. Being recognized as my famous author persona could be bad all around.

  On the upside, even famous authors are seldom instantly recognizable by most people outside of a bookstore. Take them out of context and they walk amongst us unnoticed.

  On the other hand, it might not hurt if I made a few adjustments to my appearance.

  I could go back to contacts, instead of the glasses I’d worn to look older and wiser.

  Let my hair return to its wild-thing curls (and frizz) instead of the sleek flat iron look of the past fifteen years.

  Oh.

  I sat up straight.

  Without TV cameras adding ten pounds, I could have brownies again.

  In fact, I should put on more than ten pounds to be sure I didn’t look like I had on TV.

  Starting tonight, I was ordering a second dessert in addition to my dessert contribution to sharing around the table.

  A dessert of my very own.

  This was the most cheerful view I’d had of my future since Aunt Kit sat me down to say she was retiring.

  I chatted with shopkeepers as I bought a book for another nephew, a stuffed animal for my baby niece, a scarf, spare sunglasses, and lotion, then ambled back to the ship, looking forward to sharing impressions at dinner with Catherine and Bob and — yes — Petronella.

  A day apart did wonders for my patience with my unchosen companion.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I dropped my purchases in my cabin, then headed to the soft ice cream machine by the outdoor pool.

  Six passengers, a family group judging by the resemblance, reached the soft ice cream ahead of me. The machine, clearly, was not familiar to them. I could have given them lessons — blindfolded and asleep, as a matter of fact — but they were having such a good time teasing each other in what sounded like Greek to me — literally Greek — that I hung back so they didn’t feel rushed.

  The area around the pool was sparsely populated. On this last onshore opportunity before a string of six days at sea, apparently most of the passengers ha
d opted for day-long excursions and were still out.

  It was becoming even less populated, because the Valkyries — except for Coral — had packed their totes and were heading my way in diaphanous swim coverups.

  Even here, they wore high heels that forced their feet into a ballerina’s on pointe position. Instead of appearing delicate and light, however, they clunked loudly on the deck.

  I smiled at them.

  They made fragmentary eye contact, acknowledging my existence, then a series of sniffs, apparently directed at the soft ice cream machine.

  I was sorely tempted to inform them of my plan to let a number of pounds roll back on.

  Where the main pool narrowed to join a kiddie pool, two hot tubs sat on each side. I saw Maya and Ralph in one hot tub on the near side, with Leah and a gray-haired man I hadn’t seen before in the next tub. Behind Leah, Wardham sat sideways in a deck chair next to Odette. He appeared to be trying to make quiet conversation. She read a book with no indication of paying him any attention.

  A woman deposited a bag and a towel on a nearby deck chair then strode to the tubs. She climbed in to the one Leah was in with far more determination than grace. Her arm contacted the water hard enough to splash Leah, who sputtered as if in danger of drowning.

  It hadn’t been that big a splash, but it certainly deserved an apology.

  The woman glanced at Leah, said nothing, and began upbraiding the man in German. I know enough Spanish, French, and Italian to get by, but no German beyond guten tag, bitte, and danke for good day, please, and thanks.

  She didn’t include any of those among her loud torrent of words, which drew attention from all around the pool and the bar at this end.

  He said little, not making eye contact with her or anyone else.

  Ralph and Maya were trying to pretend it wasn’t happening.

  I could only see Leah in quarter profile, but I guessed from her tense shoulders and focus on the woman that she was waiting for an opportunity to jump in and take over. The woman gave her no opportunity.

  The man said something. The woman talked over him. He spoke more sharply, the jerk of his head indicating their audience.

  She glanced around with disdain, which I thought might rocket Leah straight through the sun canopy, then blew out through pursed lips. She stood, again splashing Leah, and climbed out with no indication she was aware of anyone else around.

  The man stood — without splashing — gave a small bow of his head, then followed her.

  Silence reigned as they departed toward an upper deck.

  “Rude.” Leah said sharply as soon as they were out of sight. “Rude foreigners. Didn’t even speak English.”

  Ah. That added to my suspicion that what bothered her the most was she couldn’t effectively lambaste the woman.

  “Why should they?” Maya said. “You don’t speak their language, why should they speak yours? Besides, you’re a foreigner here, too.”

  Maya wasn’t as defenseless as she seemed.

  Leah turned toward Maya and now I could see three-quarters of her face. “You’re strange everywhere. You pathetic, sophomoric—”

  “Sophomoric,” Maya interrupted to repeat. “That’s one of your favorite words in those reviews. You use it far too much, you know.”

  Ralph reached a hand toward her. Restraining? Supplicating? She didn’t appear to see it. She was focused entirely on Leah.

  Mottled red rose up Leah’s chest, neck, and into her cheeks. “You stupid, ignorant—”

  “Dee North of Boise, Idaho.”

  Leah’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

  Ralph stood.

  Triumphantly, Maya continued, “That’s who you pretend to be when you write those horrible, horrible reviews on Amazon. A troll. That’s what they call people like you. Trolls. Leah the Troll.”

  The last was said over Maya’s shoulder, as Ralph guided her by the elbow out of their hot tub.

  That broke the spell. Wardham stood and walked away. Odette pulled her hat lower and raised her book higher. People all around the deck area and bar suddenly developed deep interest in whatever gave them an excuse to look away from Leah.

  Me?

  I scooted around the Greek family group, whose uneaten ice cream was threatening to drip over their hands because they’d been watching the drama, filled a cone expertly and wasted no time getting out of sight.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I set up on my balcony — luckily with a view across the harbor to the sharp-rising coastline opposite our berth — and tried to connect to the internet.

  Surprise! I did. The combination of many passengers still off the ship and the early diners getting ready must be creating this opening.

  Did I check my email? Respond to my assistant? Send the agent the new bio she wanted that would absolutely make the readers in Kurdistan believe I’d written Abandon All with them in mind?

  I searched for reviews by Dee North of Boise, Idaho.

  I found them. Scads of them.

  The photo was Leah. So, unless someone was spoofing her, Maya had it right. Dee was Leah’s pseudonym.

  I started reading.

  Whoa.

  Maya hadn’t been kidding about her being a troll.

  I am sickened by these characters… Overly sexual, overactive between the sheets…

  I am weary of reading sophomoric books not remotely worthy of my attention…

  I require more than mundane, two-dimensional, sophomoric, drivel, tripe…

  I desire nothing more than to force this so-called author to never again foist her blatherings on me. I can’t believe she’s stupid enough to think this sophomoric crap is readable…

  Aunt Kit has long told me that reviews say far more about the reviewer than the book. Reading one review after another by Leah, a k a Dee North, I saw what she meant.

  She began every sentence of every review with I. She said nothing — and I mean nothing — positive about any book. She launched personal attacks against authors. She included nothing specific about any book or why she hated it.

  She was thoroughly nasty.

  On impulse, I emailed Aunt Kit. No background, just asked her to look over the reviews and tell me what she thought, included a link, and asked her to text me because there was no telling how long internet service would last.

  She’d become much better at text since I’d taught her how to use voice. The woman could write book upon book upon classic book, but she could not type with her thumbs. Also, first she’d have to find the text function again, because she tended not to look at her phone except to use it … well, as a phone.

  So, I didn’t expect a prompt answer.

  To help the process along and get her started, I texted her, too. Much easier for her to reply than initiate one.

  I went back to dig more into the reviews and the internet was gone.

  * * * *

  We departed La Palma into a rousing sunset.

  Behind us, whitewashed houses dotted up steep hillsides like ragged steps and clouds writhed around the prickly tops, blushing vibrant pink and orange.

  Before us, the ocean spread toward a sky ablaze. Almost imperceptibly the ocean quenched the fire.

  Reluctantly, I closed the book I’d been mostly not reading as I stared at the horizon behind, then in front of us. Time to get cleaned up for dinner.

  How much of my reluctance stemmed from not wanting to disrupt the peace of sitting quietly alone watching dark slide in and how much was from anticipating unpleasant fireworks from the Marry-Go-Round table at dinner, I didn’t know.

  Sure, the fireworks wouldn’t be directed at me, but it still wouldn’t make for a convivial atmosphere.

  * * * *

  My phone hummed as I started down the three flights of stairs from the deck where my cabin was to the dining room. I’d knocked on Petronella’s door on the way past. No answer. She’d probably already left, driven by her terror of being late.

  A text from Aunt Kit. As I opened it
, two more quickly followed.

  The first said:

  See she likes old saw “This is what passes for literature these days.” … How many books can be the worst ever?

  I chuckled. I’d known the multiple “worst evers” would irk Aunt Kit. I’d heard her lecture that superlatives are singular, though I suppose this reviewer might claim each surpassed the previous in worst-ness.

  Reading between the lines of the second text, I could hear my great-aunt getting steamed:

  Patronizing. Presumptuous. Told Jodi Picoult, John Grisham, J.K. Rowling how to write.

  Told established author to keep trying “as everything gets better with practice.”

  Decried all romance readers as women who have nothing going for them. Hah!

  In the third text, Aunt Kit’s sharp eye for human nature came through:

  Needs to express purported moral and intellectual superiority to authors and audiences of books she reviews.

  It was like she’d met Leah.

  A rush of missing Aunt Kit hit me. Missing her sharp eyes and sharp tongue. Missing her sharing them with me in a way I don’t believe she’d shared them with anyone else. I wasn’t her co-writer, but I was her sounding board. And she was mine.

  How would that work with us no longer in the same house?

  For that matter, how would anything in my life work.

  A new rush hit me. Not panic — Aunt Kit didn’t allow that waste of time and energy, and the habit clung — but uncertainty and drifting unmoored.

  And something else…

  An uneasiness I couldn’t—

  Another hum from the phone.

  This text said: Though she failed to use its and it’s correctly.

  “Must be a good message to make you go from misty-eyed to grinning.” Odette’s voice brought my head up from contemplating the screen. She was at my shoulder as we reached the bottom of the stairs. “I called to you — you were ahead of me coming from our cabins — but you were so focused you never heard me.”

  “Hi, Odette. Our cabins are near each other?”

  “Indeed.” She gave her cabin number. “You have Maya and Ralph and me down the passage one way and Leah and Wardham the other. But you cannot distract me from wondering what brought such a response from you.”