“If she did,” Angelica said.
“Yeah,” Tricia agreed.
They approached the bow of the ship, and Tricia slowed her pace. Something about the railing overlooking the vast nothingness of pale blue sky, the darker sea, and the ship’s frothy wake bothered her. Not bothered—actually frightened her. What if some crazed individual came along and pushed you over the rail? Would the ship’s big propellers chop one to pieces? The Celtic Lady’s speed wasn’t fast, but how long could one last when flung into the cold sea, treading water with no hope of rescue and the threat of ocean predators ever at hand?
They turned the corner, heading south once again.
Tricia shook herself. Talking about EM’s death had caused her paranoia to make an appearance once again. “What’s next on your agenda?” she asked, hoping to distract herself.
“There’s a book signing at ten o’clock. It’s duty-free.”
Tricia smiled. “Well, that’s always good.”
“Are you going?”
“I wouldn’t mind. I love the fact that we don’t have to check bags and can bring on and cart home as much stuff as we want.”
Angelica laughed. “I just hope the bus taking us back to Stoneham will have room for all the extra baggage our tour members are likely to have after buying so many books.”
“I’m sure the bus’s gas—or is it diesel?—mileage is sure to plummet, because I have no problem buying my weight in books.”
Angelica laughed. “Me, either!”
They power walked along the deck for another minute or so without speaking.
“How many more circuits around the deck are you going to make?” Angelica asked.
“Oh, another three or four.”
“Well, then I think I’ll leave it to you. I’ve got too much to do. See you later,” she said, and headed for the door back into the ship.
Tricia continued walking toward the stern, but as she got closer, her paranoia seemed to peak and she did an abrupt about-face and started back the way she’d come. Perhaps she’d finish her walk in the ship’s exercise room on one of the treadmills.
Don’t be silly, Tricia told herself, and pivoted to retrace her steps. She was not going to let EM Barstow’s death overshadow her vacation. If she was honest with herself, not having to run into the woman for the rest of the trip would be a tremendous relief—and she wouldn’t be surprised if others felt the same way.
Tricia’s power walk slowed to an amble as she came up to the rail that overlooked the back end of the ship. She stepped closer to the Emerald Isle Restaurant’s big picture window and clutched the handrail, allowing other walkers and joggers to pass her.
The next morning, the ship would dock in Bermuda. Tricia suddenly found she was eager to once again step on dry land.
ELEVEN
The author signing turned out to be a lot of fun—and it seemed half of the ship’s passengers showed up, making it impossible for anyone to meet all the authors. There were, however, plenty of books to be bought, and with more than thirty authors on board, Tricia and Angelica carried large book-filled shopping bags so heavy their arms were in danger of stretching to double their length.
Arnold Smith had ridden in on his motorized chair, but instead of buying books, he brought his own, and in some cases had five or six copies of a given title. Not only was the basket on his scooter filled with books, but he had two large canvas bags hanging from its handles, too. There were plenty of grumbles at his monopolizing several authors while he kept others from getting their books signed.
Tricia and Angelica had only enough time to drop off their books, meet up with Ginny, and head for the next event.
The authors’ luncheon was to be held in the lower level of the ship’s Emerald Isle Restaurant. Tricia, Angelica, and Ginny impatiently waited in the deck’s main corridor behind scores of others.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Ginny asked, her eyes wide with anticipation.
“Who do you want to meet?” Tricia asked.
“Oh, I don’t care. I just like to soak up books, books, and more books. It’s the one thing I miss since I stopped working at Haven’t Got a Clue. And since Sofia came, I haven’t had nearly as much time to read as I would like.”
“She’s going to be all grown up much too soon,” Angelica lamented. “Enjoy every precious moment with her that you can.”
“Stop it,” Ginny teased. “You’re making me feel guilty for leaving her with Antonio and coming to this lunch.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Angelica said, sounding stricken.
“I know. What’s so great about this trip is it’s giving them some much needed daddy-daughter time together.”
“Now I feel like a slave driver,” Angelica declared. “Do you think I work Antonio too hard?”
“Not at all. He enjoys his job. We both do. It would just be more convenient if there were more hours in the day.”
“I wonder how many of the Stoneham people will be at the luncheon,” Angelica commented, changing the subject.
“I imagine just about everyone,” Tricia said.
“I don’t know. Some of them may be too exhausted to eat.”
“Why?” Angelica asked.
“I was taking Sofia for a walk this morning and passed the Crystal Ballroom. “Mary Fairchild and the Dexter twins were having a blast doing the Texas two-step at the ballroom dance class. The Dexter twins were dancing with each other.”
“Who was leading?” Angelica asked, grinning.
“Muriel . . . I think. Isn’t she the older one by a few minutes?”
“They’ve only told us about a million times. You’d think we’d remember,” Tricia quipped.
“Maybe we didn’t because we’re not really interested,” Angelica whispered conspiratorially.
“There’s going to be a dance competition on Thursday night. I think Mary wants to win.”
“What’s the prize?” Tricia asked.
“A trophy and one hundred dollars in ship’s credit toward the winner’s next cruise.”
“That’ll pay for a few martinis,” Angelica said. “You weren’t thinking of going to it, were you?”
Ginny shrugged. “Might be a little too exciting for my blood. And you’ll never guess who was sitting at one of the tables they use at teatime, and only had eyes for Mary.”
“Spare us the suspense,” Angelica deadpanned.
“Chauncey Porter.”
“You’re kidding.”
Ginny shook her head. “Nope. I think it’s rather sweet. Maybe they’ll get together, close their stores, and open a dance studio. Stranger things have happened.”
Just then, the big doors to the restaurant opened and in seconds the crowd began to move forward.
“Oh, boy!” Ginny cried, sounding like a kid anticipating a double-dip ice cream cone. Her enthusiasm was infectious.
Unlike the dinner meal, where passengers had assigned seats, the restaurant had been sectioned off with tables set for ten.
“Let’s get a seat near the podium,” Ginny suggested. “That way we won’t miss anything.” She led the way, with Angelica and Tricia trying to keep up.
Tricia enjoyed dining in the select Kells Grill, but the Celtic Lady’s main dining hall was nicely appointed, as well. The carpets and wall coverings were done in tasteful shades of green and gold, and each linen-covered table sported a simple, but pretty arrangement from the ship’s florist. On a side table sat an assortment of ornately decorated cakes that had been made to look like books. Stacked books. Books with covers from authors who’d made the trip, including EM Barstow’s latest bestseller. Every one of them was a piece of art. It seemed a shame to have to cut them.
They sat down, with Ginny settling between the sisters. An engraved card with the luncheon choices sat at each place setting. Tricia scanned hers. Lobst
er, duck, tilapia, or a vegetarian entrée. Tricia sighed, knowing what she would order.
Ginny removed her sweater. “We should save a couple of seats for Grace and Mr. Everett.”
“Good idea,” Angelica said, and she, too, took off her sweater and hung hers and Ginny’s on the backs of two of the table’s chairs. “I think I’ll order a bottle of wine for the table.” She gestured for one of the tuxedo-clad waiters to join them. “I’d like a nice bottle of Chardonnay.”
“Very good, madam. We have a very nice Australian.”
“That’ll be fine.” Angelica handed the waiter her keycard, and he nodded and turned away.
“So, who do you think will sit at our table?” Ginny asked.
“I hope it’s one of the cozy mystery authors,” Tricia said.
“I want chef Larry Andrews,” Angelica piped up. “I could talk to him for hours on only the subject of sauces.”
“What I don’t want is for this luncheon to turn into a makeshift memorial service for EM Barstow,” Ginny said.
“Oh, dear. That would be rather dreadful,” Angelica agreed.
“Someone is bound to address it,” Tricia said.
“Well, they won’t get a testimonial from me,” Ginny said, and reached for her sweating water glass. “That woman was just plain mean to me and Mr. Everett the time she visited Haven’t Got a Clue. She was even worse than Zoë Carter’s nasty assistant, and that’s saying something.”
“Poor Zoë and EM are both just as dead,” Angelica commented, trying to see around those who hadn’t yet taken their seats, no doubt looking for her favorite chef.
Zoë Carter had been strangled in Tricia’s store’s washroom. The expression on EM’s dead face had borne an uncanny resemblance to Zoë’s deathly countenance five years before.
“Is this seat taken?” asked a heavyset woman with dyed black hair. Instead of making her look younger, the color made her complexion seem washed out. She should have gone lighter by a few shades. But Tricia wasn’t there to dispense fashion critiques, and simply said, “Please join us.”
The woman sat down. “Hi. I’m Maria Hartley. I’m a librarian from Erie, Pennsylvania. Where are you from?”
“Stoneham, New Hampshire,” Ginny answered.
“And you?” Maria asked Tricia.
“We’re all from Stoneham.” She indicated the three of them. “We signed up for the tour through our local Chamber of Commerce.”
“That’s nice. My kids paid for my trip. It’s an early birthday present.”
“How nice. Did one of them come with you?”
Maria shook her head. “They all have to work. But I’m having a wonderful time away from the ice and snow. I’ve met so many nice people. Well, except for one.”
“Oh?” Tricia asked.
Maria leaned forward and lowered her voice. “That lady who killed herself. She was terribly rude to several people at her signing yesterday. I was going to buy a book, but after she chewed out one poor woman with a cane for jostling her table, I decided I’d rather have a Scotch and soda.”
“Oh, you’re my kind of girl,” Angelica said, smiling. “I’ve just ordered a bottle of wine for the table. Would you like a glass when it gets here?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Two more women on the high side of fifty approached the table. They eyed the chairs with sweaters, but pointed to two that weren’t reserved. “Are these seats taken?” one of them asked.
Ginny shook her head. “Feel free to join us.”
The women sat down. The dress code for dinners ranged between smart casual and formal, but these ladies looked more like they were ready for a day on the beach. Each was dressed in sleeveless shirts, shorts, and sneakers. Since the air-conditioning seemed to be set at maximum, they could be in danger of catching colds.
“I’m Linda Gordon,” the one on the right said, “and this is my sister Barbara.”
Calls of “Nice to meet you” and “Hi” were exchanged.
Tricia looked around and saw Grace and Mr. Everett heading their way. Smiling, she waved to them.
“Hello, everyone,” Grace called out. No one had a more infectious smile than Grace—unless it was Tricia’s current assistant, Pixie Poe, with her flashing gold canine tooth. Grace returned the sweaters to their owners, and Mr. Everett held her chair, then pushed it in before taking his own seat. The introductions were completed just as the wine was brought to the table.
The waiter gave a sample to Angelica to approve. She did, and then she signed the credit receipt and directed him to pour for the rest of the table, as well. Mr. Everett declined, but the others seemed quite enthused.
“We’ve got two chairs left. I wonder who our author will be,” Grace said, and sipped her wine.
Tricia looked around, but very few people were still standing.
“Angelica wants a chef. Tricia and I want a cozy mystery author. How about the rest of you?” Ginny asked.
“Definitely a mystery author,” said Maria.
“We’re hoping for one of the big-name romance writers,” Barbara said. “I wish Nora Roberts had come on this cruise.”
“She can hardly write six or seven books a year if she takes off for a cruise,” Linda pointed out.
“That’s true.”
“Who would you like to sit with us, Mr. Everett?” Tricia asked.
“I’ll be happy with anyone.”
“Grace?” Ginny asked.
“A romance or mystery author would be fine with me.”
They were so engaged in conversation they hardly noticed a rather short man in a baggy brown suit—sporting a bad toupee—make his way toward them. “Hello. I’m Kevin Mitchell. I’ve been assigned to your table.”
“Welcome,” Grace said politely.
Mitchell took his seat, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He reached for the crisp white napkin at the side of his place setting, shook it out, and placed it across his lap.
“I’m afraid I don’t recognize your name,” Angelica said. “What do you write?”
“Nonfiction,” Mitchell said, and smiled.
“Oh?” Mr. Everett asked keenly.
“Yes. My specialty is deep-sea microbes.”
“Really?” Ginny asked, sounding incredulous.
“Oh, yes. It’s such a fascinating topic.”
Tricia, Ginny, and Angelica traded skeptical glances.
“These microbes represent the very essence of life,” Mitchell continued. “Did you know microbes have been found along the coast of South America that haven’t changed their molecular structure in over two billion years?”
“You don’t say,” Angelica said, and reached for her wineglass. Tricia did likewise.
“Oh, yes. I could go on and on about it for hours.”
“Please don’t,” Ginny mumbled into her glass. Tricia gently jabbed her with an elbow.
“I thought all the authors on board were fiction writers,” Linda said, frowning.
“Oh, no. There are at least two of us nonfiction authors on the cruise.”
“There’re more than that. Larry Andrews is a nonfiction writer. He pens wonderful cookbooks,” Angelica said.
“I hardly think a cookbook could be considered serious work,” Mitchell said, his tone deadly.
“Well, it is to me,” Angelica said with umbrage. “I happen to be a cookbook author.”
“You are?” Barbara asked with interest.
“Angelica wrote a nationally bestselling cookbook called Easy-Does-It Cooking—and its sequel, Easy-Does-It Holidays. They’re wonderful cookbooks,” Ginny gushed. “I’m still a bit of a newlywed, and I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t had those terrific books to rely on while learning to cook.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you to say so. Thank you, Ginny,” Angelica said.
“My name is Angelica Miles. I’m afraid the ship’s bookstore has no copies for sale. My literary career is temporarily on hold since I was elected president of the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. But I’ll have a new one out next year. Mark my words.”
“Do you have a website?” Linda asked.
“Yes, I do.” Angelica reached for her purse and withdrew a couple of business cards. She handed them to Tricia, who passed them along.
“Well, that’s all very nice,” Mitchell said with what sounded like barely suppressed anger, “but I’m a serious writer. And my subject is serious, too.”
“But I don’t want to read serious stuff,” Barbara protested. “I read for pleasure.”
“My books are a pleasure to read,” Mitchell insisted.
“What’s the title of the latest one?” Grace asked, always a peacemaker.
“Microbes: Our World in Miniature. It’s my hottest seller,” he said proudly.
“What was your print run?” Ginny asked as Tricia reached for her wineglass once more.
“Nearly a thousand copies.”
Tricia nearly choked on her wine.
“What was your print run?” Barbara asked Angelica.
“In total?” She thought about it for a moment. “I think about twenty-five thousand. Of course that was for just the first book. I’m pretty sure they doubled it for the second.”
An angry blush crept up Mitchell’s neck. “Of course my book is for people with more on their minds than baking a cake or making a pizza,” he said with derision.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr. Everett. “It seems to me that there’s a lot of chemistry in good cookery.”
“What was your occupation?” Mitchell asked, his eyes narrowing.
“I started out as a butcher.”
“Like that’s something to be proud of,” Mitchell muttered with a martyred sigh.
“Hey,” Ginny protested, ever protective of her surrogate grandfather. “That was extremely rude.”
“Ginny, dear,” Angelica soothed, “let me handle this.”
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