Again Midge shook her head. “Not really. Oh, Terry, the owner, has a lot of great stuff, but we head to Boston or New York for the really interesting stuff.”
“What constitutes interesting stuff?” Tricia asked.
Muriel leaned closer and whispered, “Vintage.”
Tricia nodded. “Just like I prefer vintage mysteries.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you ever read your older comics?” Angelica asked.
“Yes—online.”
“Why online?” Tricia asked.
“We wouldn’t touch our paper copies.”
“Oh, no,” Muriel agreed. “They’re far too delicate. They must be saved for future generations.”
“But if future generations can’t actually touch them—read them . . . then of what use are they?”
“Historical documents,” Midge declared.
Muriel giggled. “Oh, sister, now you’re sounding like the Thermians from Galaxy Quest.”
Midge tittered.
Tricia and Angelica exchanged confused looks.
“Oh my God,” Muriel exclaimed, staring at the Miles sisters. “They’re mundanes!”
“Mundanes?” Tricia asked. Was she being insulted?
“Yes. Obviously, you aren’t into science fiction and other fandoms and can’t know the joy of belonging to a group of like-minded thinkers.”
Angelica frowned. “I never thought of myself as mundane. I mean, look at my shoes.”
The Dexter twins leaned forward to inspect the footwear Angelica had brandished for their approval. It was a pretty shoe—red, with snappy straps and a two-inch heel. The sisters turned back to each other and hollered, “Mundane!” and then laughed hysterically.
“You have definitely been insulted,” Tricia muttered to Angelica.
Before Angelica had time to reply, a man in a chef’s toque stepped up to the microphone on the riser behind the table of fresh fruits and vegetables. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending the Celtic Lady’s fruit and vegetable carving event. You’ll be amazed, you’ll be thrilled, and best of all you can eat our sculptures!”
“Isn’t this fun?” Angelica asked, beaming.
Tricia didn’t answer, thankful she had her library book to entertain her during the next hour.
Angelica’s attention was trained on the table before them as the first chef stepped forward, pineapple and knife in hand, to attempt the first sculpture.
Tricia opened her book and began to read, but the words weren’t making much sense. It wasn’t just the Dexter sisters and their comic book comic routine that had discombobulated her, but her thoughts kept circling back to the panel discussion and an unsmiling EM Barstow, who had attended to do . . . what? Ridicule the other authors? Or had she gone to deride the hundreds of readers who didn’t enjoy books filled with graphic depictions of blood and gore? The truth was, Tricia skipped over those often ghastly descriptions in EM’s and other thriller authors’ books. The daily news was filled with far too many accounts of man’s (and woman’s) inhumanity to man (or woman) for her to enjoy reading the same or worse for entertainment purposes. That was why she could better enjoy vintage mysteries. The violence was off the page. Someone was usually murdered, but there was usually a reason the killer chose such an outrageous solution—at least in his or her own mind. Too many thrillers were, well, thrilling. Revoltingly thrilling. Sickeningly thrilling.
No, thanks, she thought, feeling just a tad depressed. Real life was filled with too much horror these days. She’d witnessed too much of that in her own life; the murder of her ex-husband topping the list. The fact that she would have to testify before a court of law in the not-too-distant future also filled her with dread. She would do her duty as a citizen, but she feared the experience would tear open the wound of Christopher’s loss that had only just scabbed over.
“Voilà!” the chef at the front of the room cried, and Tricia looked up to see that the man triumphantly held aloft what looked like a monkey holding a lotus flower.
“Isn’t it gorgeous ?” Angelica cried, applauding with enthusiasm.
Tricia frowned. “That wouldn’t be my first choice of descriptor.”
“Okay, then cute.”
“You weren’t thinking something like that would go over at Booked for Lunch, let alone the Brookview Inn, were you?”
“Probably not,” Angelica admitted. “But talk about skill with a knife.”
“Do you think they’ll have ice sculpting, too?” Tricia asked.
“I hope so. I wonder if Jake at the Brookview would like to learn to do that.”
“Shouldn’t he stick to cooking and leave that to the gardener?”
Angelica glowered, obviously not amused at Tricia’s attempt at humor.
While they’d spoken, three of the sous chefs had entered into a contest to carve a 3-D relief on the face of melons. In just under five minutes they’d finished. One had sculpted a sun, another the man in the moon, and the third a face that looked an awful lot like the late Lucille Ball.
“Wow—I’m impressed,” Angelica murmured in awe.
Tricia shook her head and turned her attention back to her book. Yet her gaze kept wandering back to the growing number of fruit sculptures. Now, if they’d carve the Maltese Falcon, that would really capture her interest.
Out of the corner of her eye, Tricia caught sight of Cathy Copper standing to one side, watching the show. While the woman might have annoyed her the evening before, she looked lonely standing there. She was about to get up to signal Cathy to join her when the editor turned away for the corridor that led to the elevators, still limping a bit. Oh well. Maybe Tricia would catch up with her later. It was a big ship, but it would be easy to feel lonely with no friends or family to share the adventure with.
She turned back to look at her sister. Angelica’s gaze was still fixed on the table ahead, where the fruit sculptures were piling up at an alarming rate.
Clever as the fruity carvings were, they didn’t hold much allure for Tricia, who stifled a yawn. What she needed was a nice strong cup of coffee. She leaned closer to her sister. “I’m going for coffee. Want something?”
Angelica shook her head, watching the flashing knife that hacked away the excess flesh of a mango as it was transformed from a piece of fruit to a figurine.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Tricia said.
Angelica nodded, but continued to stare enraptured at the show that continued before them.
“We’ll save your seat,” Midge said as Tricia sidled past the twins.
The Lido Restaurant was on the same deck as the lounge, and Tricia entered the door, stopping at the hand sanitizer. As she worked the foam between her fingers, she noticed Fiona Sample up ahead. She was alone, and Tricia hurried to join her.
“Fiona!”
The author looked up and waved. Tricia joined her.
“How do you think the panel went?” Fiona asked eagerly.
“Oh, it was great fun. You were wonderful. Everyone on the panel was wonderful. If you’re not busy, would you join me for coffee?”
“I’d love to.”
They selected mugs, filled them from the large stainless steel urn, and doctored them before turning to search for an empty table. They found one halfway down the long aisle that overlooked the ocean, and sat down.
“I’m having such a wonderful time. It’s so great to connect with readers and authors I’ve only known via the Internet.”
Tricia lifted her cup to take a sip when she saw Arnold Smith steering his scooter down the aisle. The basket in front was filled with books.
“Hi, Fiona,” he called out as he passed, heading for the restaurant’s exit to the stern.
“Hi, Arnold,” Fiona said, sounding less than enthusiastic.
“Thanks for signing all my books.”
Fiona’s smile looked forced. “You’re welcome.”
They watched him go. When he was out of earshot, Tricia spoke. “You know that guy?”
“Everybody knows Arnold from social media. Facebook, in particular.”
“How?”
“He comments on a lot of posts, but he’s best known as a prize pig.”
Tricia’s eyebrows rose. “A what?”
“Authors have giveaways for books and other swag. Arnold enters every one of them. The idea behind the contests is for winners to give honest reviews of the books. He doesn’t. In fact, he’s on a number of lists from publishers who send out review copies. One of my readers discovered that when Arnold receives a shipment, he immediately lists the books on eBay. It’s rumored that he makes enough money to support himself.”
“That’s terrible.”
“And that’s a lot of books,” Fiona acknowledged. “During the signing after the panel, one of the authors overheard him bragging that he got a terrific discount by booking this cruise just a day ahead of sailing.”
Tricia had heard about such sell-offs. The idea of just picking up and taking a trip on a whim did hold some appeal, but you had to have a carefree lifestyle to pull it off. The Authors at Sea cruise had been her first vacation in years, and if it weren’t a Chamber-sponsored tour that her friends and adopted family were taking, she doubted she would have been tempted to leave her cat and her store for a week—even during the slowest time of year.
“Can’t you report Arnold to the publishers?”
“It’s been done—a number of times. Somehow he always knows when the publicists leave and manages to sweet-talk the new ones into adding him again. He’s been doing it for years. He had us all sign those books in his basket—just our names. You can bet they’ll be offered for sale before the sun sets after we dock.”
Tricia shook her head. She didn’t want to think about that sorry little man. “How’s your family?”
Fiona’s eyes lit up. There wasn’t any better question to ask a mom who was proud of her kids, and Fiona launched into a joyful tale that had Tricia laughing until she had to wipe her eyes. It was no wonder the woman was a New York Times bestselling author. She could tell a damn fine story.
“I’m sorry to have monopolized the conversation. Tell me, what’s been going on with you?” Fiona asked.
“There’s not much to tell,” Tricia said. “I have a new assistant since you last visited, and she’s a big fan of your work.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
Tricia could have mentioned the fire that nearly destroyed her store, and the death of her ex-husband, but decided to keep the conversation light. “I’m going to reconfigure my storeroom into living space this spring. It’ll be messy and time consuming, and no doubt cost double my contractor’s estimate, but I can’t wait to start.”
“That sounds lovely,” Fiona said.
Their coffee was long gone when Tricia checked her watch. “Good grief—the fruit sculpting must nearly be over with by now. Angelica will wonder where I’ve disappeared to.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“Don’t worry, Angelica is a big girl. She can navigate on her own—much better than either of us, I’m sure.”
“Tell her I said hi.”
“I will.”
They stood. “See you later,” Fiona said, and headed aft.
Tricia retraced her steps to the Garden Lounge. She had a few stories to share with Angelica and again wondered about the disagreeable Mr. Arnold Smith. He’d already antagonized EM. Was he likely to do the same to others?
SEVEN
By the time Tricia and Angelica made it to the Kells Grill, they found the rest of their party already seated, and another bottle of bubbly had been ordered. Dori Douglas gave Tricia a smile and a wave as they joined Ginny, Antonio, Grace, and Mr. Everett. EM Barstow had not yet made an appearance, and Tricia dreaded an exhibition like the one they’d witnessed the night before.
“Did you have a nice day?” Dori called to Tricia.
“Very nice, thank you. And you?”
“Wonderful.”
Tricia nodded and reached for her napkin.
“Emmie isn’t joining me for dinner tonight, so you should have a much more peaceful meal.”
“Oh,” Tricia said, and stole a glance at Angelica. Was Dori fishing for an invitation to join them?
“She’s working tonight. She’s eager to finish at least another chapter of her work in progress before she’s called upon to do any more appearances during the voyage.”
“How nice,” Angelica said, and turned her attention to the champagne bottle that Antonio held to fill her glass.
“Should I invite her to join us?” Tricia muttered.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Angelica said without moving her lips. Was ventriloquism another of her talents?
The waiter arrived with a plate and set it before Dori, who gave him a smile. “Thank you.”
“Have a nice dinner,” Angelica said, and turned her attention to the others at their table. “I’m so glad you and Grace could join us tonight, Mr. Everett. Did you have a nice day?”
“Outstanding,” Mr. Everett said, sounding jovial. “Grace told me about the wonderful cruises she’d been on in the past, but I never thought I would enjoy it as much as I have so far.”
They spent the next ten minutes comparing notes on the various events they’d all enjoyed, then got down to the serious business of choosing their dinner appetizers, entrées, and desserts. Meanwhile, Dori had finished her meal, and gazed out the window at the darkened sea . . . eavesdropping?
Cristophano was again their waiter and stood with his little pad ready to write down their orders.
“I’ll have the caviar for my appetizer, the salmon tartare for my entrée, and the mango and passion fruit crème brûlée for dessert. And, oh, my goodness—doesn’t that sound decadent?” Angelica asked, practically glowing.
“I’ll skip the appetizer and have the endive salad,” Tricia said.
“No appetizer?”
Tricia shook her head.
“Dessert?” Cristophano asked hopefully.
Again, Tricia shook her head.
“That’s not all you’re having for dinner, is it?” Ginny asked.
“Lunch was very filling. That’s all I need.”
“This is supposed to be a vacation,” Angelica admonished.
Antonio held up a hand. “My dear Angelica. Tricia knows what she wants and needs.”
“Thank you,” Tricia said, handing the menu back to Cristophano.
“Well, I’m with Angelica. This is my vacation, and since I don’t have to cook, I’m going to enjoy everything I can, because we’ll be back to soup and sandwiches when we get home,” Ginny said, and proceeded to order caviar, roast duck, and butter pecan ice cream.
Tricia had to admit, her mouth was watering at all the wonderful dinner selections her tablemates made, yet she felt confident in her decision. She didn’t want to wage a battle of the cruise ship bulge upon returning home.
Once their orders had been taken, Antonio refilled their flutes and conversation commenced once again.
“For such a big boat, I seem to keep running into the same people all day long,” Ginny observed.
“Me, too,” Angelica agreed.
“What was your favorite part of the day?” Ginny asked Mr. Everett.
“The cozy authors’ panel. Those ladies know how to have a good time.”
“Oh, yes,” Grace agreed.
“I didn’t see you there,” Tricia said. “We could have sat together.”
“We were in one of the boxes on the starboard side,” Grace said. “I must admit, it was great fun to sit there in our own little private area. I understand during the theatrical pres
entations that one can order champagne and hors d’oeuvres.”
“What was your least favorite part of the day?” Angelica asked Mr. Everett.
He scowled. “EM Barstow’s talk. It was Grace who was interested in hearing her speak. I only went along to keep her company.”
“I have to admit, it wasn’t my favorite part of the day,” Grace said. “She is a strange duck, isn’t she?”
“It wasn’t the highlight of my day, either,” Angelica agreed, and sipped her wine.
Tricia cringed as Dori’s head now seemed cocked in their direction.
“She doesn’t seem to know how to relate to people in general—and her fans in particular,” Mr. Everett observed.
“Perhaps she suffers from autism spectrum disorder,” Grace said.
Tricia’s eyes widened. “You know, that’s an astute observation.” Thinking it over, Tricia reconsidered her negative feelings about the woman. Having a disorder didn’t exactly excuse EM’s behavior, but it certainly explained it.
A look in Dori’s direction confirmed that she was definitely listening to their conversation. Would she share Grace’s speculation with EM? Did it matter? Still, Tricia would feel terrible if EM sought her out and gave her a public tongue-lashing. She decided to change the subject, but was spared when the appetizers arrived at the table.
All but Tricia tucked in with evident delight.
“Would you like to try the caviar?” Ginny asked Tricia. “I’ve got plenty.”
“That’s very sweet of you, but I’m fine, thanks.
Dori pushed back her chair and rose. Tricia caught her gaze and smiled. Dori nodded and left the restaurant, allowing Tricia to breathe a sigh of relief.
Angelica tapped Tricia’s arm. “I’d forgotten she was sitting right there. Do you think she heard our conversation?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Well, we didn’t say anything particularly nasty.”
“No, we didn’t,” Ginny agreed.
“I don’t understand,” Grace said.
“EM Barstow’s assistant was sitting at the next table,” Tricia explained.
“Oh, no!” Grace said, her expression troubled.
“I’m sure she’s heard worse—perhaps even thought or said it herself,” Angelica said defensively.
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