Title Wave

by Lorna Barrett

  A pall seemed to settle over the table. EM Barstow had that ability—even when she wasn’t physically present.

  Tricia noticed Mr. Everett taking in the faces around him. “I suggest we have a toast. To happiness. Perhaps we should all try to spread a little more of it around.”

  “I’m all for that,” Ginny said.

  They raised their glasses and then drank.

  Talk turned to the next day’s events and the upcoming port call to Bermuda, but Tricia found she didn’t have the enthusiasm to join in. Why should she feel guilty that the conversation had turned to EM with Dori listening in? She hadn’t participated in it and had made only one comment.

  Mr. Everett was right. They were on a wonderful vacation with great speakers and silly events—like the fruit and veggie carving—and Tricia was determined to enjoy it.

  If she could allow herself to do so.

  * * *

  After they said good night to Ginny, Antonio, Grace, and Mr. Everett, it was Tricia who suggested she and Angelica try out another of the ship’s bars that evening. “Sounds like fun,” Angelica said.

  This time, they went to the Yacht Club, which was sedate and as sparsely populated as the Portside Bar. They took seats facing each other, separated by a small wooden table.

  “Where do you think everybody goes in the evenings?” Angelica asked.

  “Probably sitting in their rooms reading,” Tricia offered.

  “Maybe we should check out the disco—or the Lucky Shamrock Casino.”

  Tricia wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “That’s not my kind of scene.”

  “It used to be mine,” Angelica admitted sadly, “but I guess you’re right. The music would probably be loud enough to damage our hearing in the disco, and you may as well flush your money directly down the toilet as gamble, the way the odds are stacked for the house.”

  A waitress came by. “May I get you ladies anything?”

  “What shall we drink tonight?” Angelica asked, her eyes widening with pleasure.

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  “How about a cosmopolitan. I haven’t had one of those in years.”

  “Make that two,” Tricia said, but before she could get out her keycard, Angelica had already surrendered her own.”

  “Very good,” the waitress said, and turned away.

  “I was going to get that.”

  “You can get the next round,” Angelica said, and leaned back into her chair. “So, what’s on your mind tonight?”

  “I spent the last couple of days before we came on the trip thinking about the future.”

  “Oh?” Angelica said, leaning forward with interest.

  “Now that I own the building that houses Haven’t Got a Clue, I was thinking about how I could better use the space.” It occurred to Tricia that she’d spilled the story to Fiona before she’d even discussed it with her own sister.

  “Really? What did you have in mind?”

  “Converting my storeroom into another floor of living quarters.”

  “What would you do with your extra stock?”

  “I was thinking about converting the basement into a stock/workroom. It’s just sitting there doing nothing. I spoke to Jim Stark, and he thinks he could do it in a matter of weeks.”

  Angelica leaned forward and rested a hand on Tricia’s arm. “I’m so glad to hear you making plans for the future. After Christopher’s death, I was afraid you might decide living in Stoneham was too painful.”

  “Sometimes it is. But the truth is, it was my home for much longer than it was his. My friends are in Stoneham—and so is my family. I have no intention of leaving.”

  Angelica’s eyes glistened. “It is home, isn’t it?”

  Tricia nodded, smiling. “I thought about buying a house or a condo, but I really don’t want to leave Main Street. I like the area. It’s so pretty in the summer with all the flowers. And it’s vibrant, too.”

  “In the winter,” Angelica ventured, “not so much. What were you thinking of doing to the building?”

  “Moving the kitchen and living room down to the second floor and building a master suite with a spa-like bathroom upstairs.”

  “That sounds fabulous! I hope you’re going to let me help you redecorate.”

  “I was hoping you might volunteer.”

  “I may just steal the whole idea. Honestly, I’ve never lived in such cramped quarters as I do now. And it would give Sarge a whole new place to run around and play.”

  “Miss Marple pretty much has the run of the building, but I sometimes worry about her getting shut into the storeroom. This would eliminate that problem.”

  The waitress arrived with their drinks and returned Angelica’s keycard. She signed the receipt and picked up her glass. “Here’s to your beautiful new digs.”

  “And yours, too!” They clinked glasses and drank.

  “That was a lovely toast Mr. Everett gave at dinner. He’s right, of course, too. We should try to spread a little more happiness.”

  “Nigela Ricita seems to do that every day.”

  “Well, I’m sure she tries,” Angelica said, and winked.

  “Let’s hope this new phase of our lives means a lot less trouble and strife.”

  “I’m for that,” Angelica agreed. “And let’s never hear those dreaded words village jinx again.”

  Tricia managed a wry smile. “I’m taking a vow of total disinterest in real crime and turning all my attention to that on the written page only.”

  “Good for you. They say curiosity killed the cat—and I don’t want that happening to you, too.” Angelica raised her glass and they drank on it.

  Tricia sipped her cosmopolitan. No one will ever call me the village jinx again, she thought smugly, then frowned.

  Had she just jinxed herself?

  EIGHT

  It was only a little after eleven when Tricia finished reading her library book and started another on her e-reader, but two hours into it she didn’t feel the least bit sleepy. She kept eyeing the box on the dresser that contained the sweater. The idea that someone on board was keeping tabs on her made Tricia feel uncomfortable, as well as apprehensive. So much for her relaxing vacation. Still, she turned out the bedside lamp and settled down, but despite her best efforts, the trip to dreamland seemed to be delayed by more than just a couple of hours.

  Maybe she shouldn’t drink alcohol so near bedtime. More likely it was thoughts of her upcoming renovation that kept her from drifting off to sleep. She tried to banish such considerations, but the idea of making what she had often thought of as temporary digs into her real and true home was rather exciting. One entire wall of her new living room would accommodate all her favorite vintage mysteries. Perhaps she’d have someone design a special climate-controlled cabinet to hold the most fragile and valuable tomes in her collection.

  The ideas kept circling and circling through her brain and wouldn’t stop. Often, at times like that, she’d get up and make a cup of hot cocoa. She wasn’t fussy. The instant kind from a packet was just fine.

  The ship boasted twenty-four-hour room service, but Tricia didn’t want to be served. The truth was, it sometimes took so long for the food or drink to make it from the kitchen that it just wasn’t hot enough to satisfy.

  Tricia threw back the duvet, turned on the bedside lamp, and got out of bed. Stuffing her feet into her complimentary Celtic Lady slippers, she donned her new sweater over her sweats, grabbed her keycard, and quietly left the stateroom.

  The lights in the long corridor blazed twenty-four/seven, and if the suite hadn’t included a large picture window, she was certain she might never have known if it was day or night. The doors to all the other rooms and suites were closed as she headed for the Lido Restaurant. The only sound was the ever-present thrum of the ship’s powerful diesel engines belowdec
ks.

  Tricia pressed the UP button and stood before the lift, waiting. She looked around her, feeling a little unnerved. Was it safe to roam the decks in your pj’s? What if the person who’d sent the gifts was waiting somewhere to pounce?

  The lift doors opened, and Tricia made sure the car was empty before she stepped inside, pressing the button for Deck 10. Would it be safer to walk back down to her stateroom, or was she just being paranoid? Then again, that kind of exercise might just get her blood churning and she’d never get to sleep.

  A few other night owls sat at tables, reading or quietly conversing, and Tricia helped herself to a mug, tipping cocoa mix into it and filling it with hot water. She stirred until the powder was completely dissolved and took a tentative sip. Ouch! Much too hot. She poured a little out and added a little milk, then stirred again. Ahh. This time the temperature was perfect. She took enough sips so that she could comfortably walk the corridors without spilling her drink, and set off back to her stateroom.

  Like her trip to the Lido Restaurant, Tricia met no other passengers or crew on her way back down to her cabin, but something was different as she approached her suite. The door to one of the staterooms was ajar, which was odd. The heavy cabin doors needed a wedge to stay propped open, and the door hadn’t been open some ten minutes before when she’d left the deck.

  “Hello?” Tricia called quietly. “Is anyone inside?”

  The room was dark—which meant no keycard sat in the slot that powered the stateroom.

  “Hello?” Tricia called again, wondering if anyone was inside, and if so, should she disturb them? She glanced up and down the corridor. Still nobody in sight. She sipped her cocoa, which had quickly cooled. It made no sense. Why prop open a door and then leave the stateroom vulnerable to theft or vandalism?

  Curiosity got the better of her, and Tricia pushed the door fully open. “Hello.”

  No one answered.

  She took out her keycard, slipped it into the slot just inside the door, and instantly the lights came on. The double bed looked like it had been slept in, the covers thrown back in an untidy jumble, but the room appeared to be unoccupied. Tricia used her foot to replace the wedge in the door. Had the stateroom’s current resident been like Tricia and felt the need for a soothing cup of cocoa? She glanced around the lounge. The room’s small desk was clear of clutter, and the loveseat was piled high with clothes that looked vaguely familiar. She tiptoed into the bedroom, where lights blazed. The complimentary slippers with the Celtic Lady emblem, like those she wore, sat beside the bed. On the bedside table was a pill caddy and a half-empty glass of water.

  Light spilled from the opening at the bottom of the suite’s bathroom’s door. “Hello?” Tricia called again.

  Still no answer.

  She knocked on the door.

  Again, no answer.

  She tried the handle. It wasn’t locked.

  “Is anybody in there?” she called before poking her head inside.

  Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of EM Barstow, dressed in a long flannel nightgown, eyes bulging, her tongue lolling, with a colorful scarf around her neck, hanging from the marble shower’s rainfall fixture.

  Tricia turned away from the terrible sight, squeezing her eyes shut.

  Oh, crap. Now I’m the Celtic Lady’s jinx at sea!

  * * *

  “Just what were you doing in Ms. Barstow’s stateroom at two in the morning, Ms. Miles?” asked the Celtic Lady’s chief of security, Ian McDonald. He was a good-looking man, probably in his early forties. Tall, a little beefy, with a close-cropped ginger beard that Tricia might have found intriguing under other circumstances, he spoke with a slight accent, which was also rather appealing.

  Tricia squirmed on the uncomfortable straight-backed chair in McDonald’s tiny office. “As I’ve explained to you at least three times, I’d gone to the Lido Restaurant to get a cup of cocoa.” She held up the empty mug she still had. “When I returned, I saw the door to Ms. Barstow’s suite had been wedged open. I thought it odd and I went inside to see if everything was all right. It wasn’t.”

  “What made you go inside?” he repeated gently, but firmly.

  “I—” she began, about to tell him that she’d found more than her fair share of bodies since opening her mystery bookstore, but then thought better of it. “I have an insatiable curiosity about things. Maybe I’m just nosy,” she offered with a shrug.

  McDonald was not amused.

  Tricia let out a sigh. “Did Ms. Barstow leave a note?”

  “You’re assuming it was suicide?” McDonald asked.

  “Well, yes.” Wasn’t it obvious?

  “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

  “You mean besides the fact she was found hanging?” He nodded. Tricia shrugged. “I guess it was the pills.”

  “Pills?” he pressed.

  “I saw a pill container on the desk, and a glass with a little water in it. I just wondered if she’d taken an overdose and then decided to make sure she carried out her attempt.”

  McDonald continued to stare at Tricia. He had the warmest gray eyes she’d ever seen.

  “What is your occupation, Ms. Miles?”

  “I’m a bookseller.”

  “Did you know Ms. Barstow?”

  Tricia hesitated. “We’d met. She came to my store in Stoneham, New Hampshire, for a book signing several years ago.”

  “What was your opinion of the woman?”

  Bombastic blowhard. Obnoxious. Insufferable, were the first descriptors that came to Tricia’s mind, but she didn’t wish to speak ill of the dead. “She wrote a good thriller.”

  His stare intensified. “That’s it?”

  Tricia nodded.

  McDonald frowned. “That’s not particularly helpful.” He scrutinized her face. “So, you admired her?”

  Again Tricia hesitated. “Not necessarily. I read her work and have customers who wouldn’t want to miss her upcoming books. I’m sure they’ll be disappointed to hear of her loss.”

  “But you won’t?” McDonald guessed.

  Tricia shrugged.

  “Officer, my shop does sell some new releases, but I’m primarily interested in vintage mysteries.”

  “So you didn’t like Ms. Barstow?”

  “I honestly didn’t know her. I dealt with her one time at my store, and I observed her here on the Celtic Lady, but other than that, she was a virtual stranger.”

  “Do you know of anyone who would want to see Ms. Barstow dead?”

  Did McDonald think the thriller author had been murdered? Why? Because there was no note to support suicide? And then Tricia remembered the cozy authors’ panel she’d attended in the ship’s theater earlier in the day. Diana Lovell had joked that the big-name author’s backlist had obliterated all chances for midlist authors to hit the bestsellers list, but it had been a joke. She’d hosted Ms. Lovell at signings at her own store and had found her to be not only elegant, but charming, and she loved the Perfect Posies Mysteries. Sara and Julien were two of her favorite characters. And Tricia had no doubt that while the other authors on the panel may have cursed the timing of their book releases in relation to other, bigger-name authors, they pretty much had to suck it up and accept it, hoping that when their next release debuted they might fare better. They were the victims of poor timing, like hundreds of other authors, but nothing more.

  Tricia gave herself a mental shake. The woman had committed suicide. Unhappy people did it every day, leaving devastation in their wake, although she was sure that may not be the case in EM Barstow’s death. Oh, sure, her publisher and a million or so readers would mourn her passing—mainly because they weren’t going to get any more Tennyson Eisenberg thrillers—but those people EM had abused on a regular basis might not grieve at all.

  And then there was Arnold Smith. “I did overhe
ar a rather unpleasant conversation between Ms. Barstow and one of her readers earlier in the day in the ship’s library.”

  “Oh?”

  Tricia related what she’d heard while searching for something new to read. Should she mention what Fiona had said about the man, or was it better to let McDonald do his own sleuthing and form his own opinions on Smith?

  She decided the latter.

  “Anything else?” McDonald asked.

  “Have you spoken with Ms. Barstow’s assistant?” Tricia asked.

  “I didn’t know she had one.”

  “Her name is Dori Douglas. She’s a passenger on this voyage. Perhaps she can tell you about Ms. Barstow’s emotional state.”

  McDonald turned to the computer on his desk and began tapping on the keyboard. “Here she is. Stateroom 7045. I believe I’ll have a chat with her, too.”

  “Will you wake her up to do so?”

  He shook his head. “Until I know otherwise, Ms. Barstow’s death will be treated as a suicide. Talking to her associate can wait. I’m sure she’ll be extremely upset.”

  “Maybe not,” Tricia said offhandedly.

  McDonald frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s no secret that Ms. Barstow treated her assistant abominably.”

  “And you have this on good authority?”

  “I witnessed it more than once on this trip—and so did many of the other passengers.”

  McDonald frowned. “Perhaps I will go speak with her now. How do you think she’ll take the news?”

  Do a jig? Tricia wondered. “I really couldn’t say. I’ve only spoken with the woman a couple of times.”

  McDonald nodded.

  “What will happen to the body?” Tricia asked.

  “We’ll store it in our morgue until we get some direction from the family. It may be that it travels with us until we return to New York. That is where Ms. Barstow was to disembark.”

  Tricia nodded. Unless they kept the body well refrigerated, it could be quite ripe by the time the ship made it back to that port. That was the hazard of dying in an inconvenient place.