Terns of Endearment

by Donna Andrews

  Delaney looked a little down. More than a little, actually. Rob had the anxious expression of a devoted dog who can’t figure out what to do to cheer up his depressed owner, but isn’t planning to give up anytime soon. I hoped Delaney’s mood wasn’t due to the writers’ disappointment with her first round of results.

  “Morning,” I said. “Although not a very good one, I see. What’s wrong?”

  “You mean apart from being marooned in the middle of the ocean with no Internet?” Delaney said. “What could be wrong?”

  “Delaney’s kind of bummed out,” Rob said. “You know the lady who jumped overboard?”

  Angie and I both nodded.

  “She wrote this series of books that I loved.” Delaney shook her head sadly.

  “Would that be the Fiefdoms of the Were-Knights series?” I asked.

  “You too?” Her eyes lit up. “Aren’t they great?”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” I said. “I haven’t read them—I only just heard of their existence today.”

  “But yeah, they were—are—great,” Angie said.

  “I just love the weresquid.” Delaney chuckled slightly as she spoke

  “Weresquid?” I turned to Angie for enlightenment. “I know you said she was scraping the bottom of the barrel for were-creatures to be the romantic heroes, but a weresquid? Seriously?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t one of the romantic heroes.” Delaney was now giggling. “He was the king’s chief counselor and also the spymaster. A recurring character, and one of the best sources of comic relief.”

  “Yes.” Angie smiled. “There was a lot of comic relief in those books. That should have been everyone’s first clue.”

  “First clue to what?” Delaney asked.

  “Desiree St. Christophe didn’t write the Were-Knights,” Angie said. “A friend of ours did. She always had a great sense of humor.”

  “And Desiree had no sense of humor?” I asked.

  “She had a negative sense of humor,” Angie said. “Hilarious jokes fell flat just from being told in the same room with her.”

  “That’s a relief,” Delaney said. “When I saw the name on the passenger list I got all excited, thinking how great it would be to meet the mind that invented with Sir Architeuthis. And then she turned out to be this…”

  “Diva?” I suggested

  “Witch, maybe?” Angie said.

  “I was just going to say bitch,” Delaney said. “Totally bummed me out, because I’ve really liked those books, and I was afraid after meeting her I wouldn’t be able to enjoy them anymore.”

  “Don’t take it out on the books,” Angie said. “Desiree had nothing to do with them. My friend Nancy wrote them, every word. And you’d have adored Nancy.”

  “Past tense,” Delaney said. “So she’s gone, too? Damn. I was hoping there for a moment that if Desiree hadn’t written them, maybe that meant there would still be more.”

  “Nancy died five months ago,” Angie said.

  “Oh.” Delaney frowned. “Well, that kind of explains it.”

  “Explains what?” I asked.

  “All the fan groups have been puzzled, and starting to get a little worried, because there didn’t seem to be any new books in the pipeline for a while,” Delaney explained. “And then finally there were, but just titles—no information. Not even what the werebeast was going to be. When either Desiree or the publisher said anything, it was always something really generic about looking forward to the adventures of another dashing knight.”

  “Maybe they were frantically trying to find someone to take Nancy’s place,” I suggested, turning to Angie. “And having a hard time of it.”

  “It would be Desiree doing the looking,” Angie said. “And yeah, she’d have a hard time of it. Nancy was an amazing writer. Incredible range. She could write a comic scene that would have you in stitches, then turn around and write a romantic encounter that would make you want to elope with a werekoala. Or a sex scene so hot you’d be wanting a cold shower. She’d be a hard act to follow. We should ask Tish and Kate and Janet if they’ve heard any rumors in their writing communities.”

  “You haven’t in yours?”

  “She wouldn’t really be looking for a mystery writer.” Angie shook her head. “She’d need someone with a toehold in both romance and fantasy. Damn! I should have told the rest of the group before. Maybe they’d have been able to get the word out to be very careful—what if someone else got trapped in a horrible contract with Desiree?”

  “Then the someone else just got a very lucky break,” I said. “You say Desiree would be the one doing the looking—I gather Nancy’s contract was with Desiree then, not her publisher.”

  “Oh, yes.” Angie nodded. “Nancy was pretty sure the publisher had no idea who was doing the writing. Desiree wasn’t very self-aware, if you ask me, but she was totally paranoid. She was probably afraid that if the publisher found out someone else was doing the writing, they’d try to cut her out.”

  “And would they?”

  “Would they try to dump a demanding high-maintenance diva for a pleasant, hardworking writer who can actually do the work? I would.”

  “Then Desiree wasn’t really paranoid, was she?” I countered. “I mean, does it count as paranoid if they really are out to get you?”

  “Good point,” Angie said through giggles. Then her face fell. “You know what this means, of course.”

  “Anyone on board this ship who’s a writer is a suspect,” Delaney said. “That stinks.”

  “Yes.” Angie nodded and slumped back in her chair. “And the four of us are the only writers on the ship.”

  “That we know of,” I said. “I’ll be blunt: Do you know for certain that it’s not one of you? Taking over for Nancy, that is, not bumping off Desiree.”

  “But doesn’t that amount to the same thing?” Angie said.

  “She has a point,” Rob said.

  “It would give you motive,” I said. “It wouldn’t prove you did it.”

  Angie frowned and thought for a few moments.

  “Nancy’s been dead five months, and was trying to break her contract with the diva for about four months before that,” she finally said.

  “So Desiree had plenty of time to recruit a replacement.” If she didn’t want to answer my question about her friends, I wasn’t going to push it.

  “And if she found someone, I know she’d have had them get to work immediately. She was a hard taskmaster. And she must have found someone if they announced new titles. And whoever it was…”

  Her voice trailed off and she sat thinking.

  “We’re close,” Angie said finally. “The four of us—used to be the five of us. We meet weekly to critique each other’s work. A lot of other days we’re having lunch or breakfast or dinner or coffee in pairs or groups to share news or word counts or maybe brainstorm. A couple of years ago we had to ban calling each other before three in the afternoon because we spent so much time on the phone that it was interfering with our productivity.”

  “Her death left a big hole in all your lives,” I said.

  “Yes.” She blinked a couple of times before forging ahead. “And before that, for the last seven years, Nancy’s life had—well, a big hole would be a good way to describe that, too. A big fat hole in the middle of her life and, by extension, our lives together. She still did the meetings and the meals and the phone calls, but it was about our work, not hers. She almost never brought anything. The few times she did, you could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She finally told me what was going on about two years ago, because she had to tell someone. And after that, I could see that the big fat hole wasn’t her being blocked. It was her hiding the fact that she was working all the hours God gave on books for Desiree and only finding scraps of time for her own work. And didn’t feel she could turn to us for support because of Desiree constantly harping on the non-disclosure agreement.”

  I nodded.

  “But even though we didn’t know wh
at she was doing, we knew something was up. She had to lie to hide it and say she was blocked and supporting herself with boring freelance jobs. So if one of the others was working on a secret project, I’d know something was up. I know what projects they’re all working on and how hard they’re working on them and what long hours it takes. There aren’t any big fat holes in their lives—or mine. So I’m as sure as can be that none of them were ghostwriting for Desiree. But how could I explain that to the police, or the FBI, or whoever ends up investigating this?”

  “If anyone ever does,” I said.

  “That idea isn’t very comforting, either.” Angie closed her eyes for a moment as if in pain. “We could have this hanging over us, unresolved, forever. ‘Oh, look, it’s those friends of Nancy Goreham’s. The ones who blamed Desiree St. Christophe for her suicide and managed to throw her overboard on that cruise.’ Not something I want to hear whispered behind my back for the rest of my life.”

  “Well, then you’ve got a mission. You and the rest of your group.”

  Angie cocked her head as if asking what.

  “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to see if there are any other writers aboard. Writers so hungry to get published that they’d be willing to accept the very unfavorable terms of a contract with Desiree.”

  “I get it.” Angie nodded. “Because maybe the new ghostwriter has had time enough to figure out what a pickle she’s in, and that would make her the most likely suspect if Desiree had help going overboard.”

  “She or he, I assume,” I replied. “Or aren’t there men who write romance?”

  “Yes, but it’s more likely to be a woman. Not only because we outnumber men in the romance world, but also because I think Desiree was better at bossing women around.”

  “But it could be a he, so don’t overlook the male crew and passengers as you do your sleuthing.”

  “Right.” She pulled out her phone, looked at it for a second, and then stuck it back in her pocket. “Life will be so much easier when we get power back,” she said. “If we had power, I could just text Tish and Kate and tell them to meet me back in the library lounge ASAP instead of running all over the ship looking for them. Janet?”

  “I’ll be there,” she said. “Just let me give Delaney the files I have.”

  “Tish and Kate are coming up with some more files,” I told Delaney. “So you can prove that Desiree didn’t write the Were-Knight series.”

  “Cool,” Delaney said.

  “Tell them to meet me back in the library lounge,” Angie said. “Laters!”

  She bounced away looking revived by having something to do.

  “So what happens next?” Delaney said.

  “Not much,” I said. “The captain considers the investigation closed, so unless someone comes up with some reason to think Desiree’s death wasn’t suicide—someone like Dad or Horace or the writers—and manages to convince the captain—”

  “I meant with the Fiefdoms of the Were-Knights,” she said. “What happens to the series now that both the ghostwriter and the writer who was claiming the credit are dead?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “You should ask one of the writers.”

  “I hope they get someone to continue it,” she said. “Someone good. I’d hate to think of never seeing Sir Architeuthis again.”

  “The weresquid?”

  She nodded.

  “You seem to be fixated on the weresquid.”

  “Not really,” she said. “It’s just that he’s by far the funniest character. Like one time—I should explain that the way being a werewhatever works in the Fiefdoms world is that you turn into your alter ego at the full moon, but you’re also in danger of changing whenever you’re experiencing strong emotion, good or bad.”

  “That must be awkward if you’re doing a boy-meets-girl story,” I said. “One would think strong emotion would be pretty predictable there.”

  “And she uses it brilliantly! Like the scene where Sir Tigris, the weretiger, is alone with Princess Catlyn for the first time, and when they’re talking his words sound like purring. Not sure what it is, maybe a lot of r’s, something about the rhythm of the sentences—it’s really subtle but it’s awesome. And Sir Architeuthis, the weresquid—the king is always yelling at him, “Get a backbone, man!” and sometimes that stresses him out so much it makes him start to change, and of course a squid doesn’t even have a backbone—I’m not doing it justice; the way she does it, it’s great. And then a couple of times in really tense scenes when Sir Architeuthis realizes he’s in serious danger, he’ll fart a little black ink.”

  This sent her off into gales of laughter.

  “Maybe I should read these books.” Rob guffawed along with her.

  I chuckled a little, to be polite. Clearly you had to have read the books.

  And maybe I should read the books. I’d have plenty of time now if I had a copy. Actually I probably did have a copy—I was pretty sure The Sharp Claw of Love was part of the series. But reading it wasn’t a good idea—if it turned out to be be evidence of some kind, my reading it could destroy whatever clues it contained. No, I should tuck it safely away and find myself another way to read the Were-Knights. If we had power and an Internet connection, I’d just go online with my iPad, download an e-book of the first one in the series, and find a quiet corner.

  Of course, while I didn’t have the Internet, I did still have Delaney.

  “Do you have any of these weresquid books on one of your devices?” I asked Delaney.

  “All of them—you want to try one?” She sounded eager.

  “If you’re not using whatever device they’re on,” I said. “And if you’re okay with me borrowing it.”

  “Not a problem,” Delaney said. “Or if you like, I could use one of my cables to transfer the first one onto your phone—you’ve got an e-reading program on it, right? And I’ll charge it up for you while I have it.”

  “Have at it.” I handed her my phone. She reached into her tote bag, produced a white cable, and attached my phone to one of her solar chargers.

  I felt very comforted, seeing my phone being recharged. Totally silly, since there wasn’t a whole lot I could do with it right now other than take pictures and check the time. The feeling of being partly naked without it was also silly. Clearly I was too addicted to the wretched thing.

  I glanced around. Down on deck five, Mother and Aunt Penelope had pulled out their sketchbooks and were hard at work, no doubt coming up with a complete redesign for the main dining room, or possibly the boarding lobby. Dad and Horace were down on deck four heaving some sort of weight over the railings and then hauling it back again with the attached rope. Probably a gallon milk jug or some similar container from the ship’s kitchen.

  Time to get back to my search for Léonie.

  Chapter 20

  I stood up to leave.

  “Meg!” Grandfather waved me over to where he and Caroline were sitting.

  “This business of stopping in mid-ocean,” Grandfather said. “I don’t like it.”

  Caroline rolled her eyes and pulled her sun hat over her face. I deduced that whatever Grandfather was on about had worn out her patience.

  “I don’t think any of us likes it,” I said. “But it’s not as if the crew are doing it deliberately.”

  “How do we know they’re not?” Grandfather was frowning with suspicion as he scanned the horizon.

  “What possible reason could they have for stopping the ship in the middle of the ocean?” I wondered if he was trying to crack a joke and failing more dramatically than usual.

  “I think that’s what we need to find out.” He abandoned his study of the horizon and fixed his gaze on me, from which I deduced that he was actually expecting me to do the finding out.

  “Maybe they’re in league with pirates,” Rob called out from his recliner on the other side of the deck. “And they’ve stopped the ship here so the pirates can ambush us.”

  “Now there’s an alarmi
ng thought!” Grandfather didn’t look particularly alarmed. He looked as if he was under the delusion that a pirate attack might be entertaining.

  “Unlikely,” I said.

  “How do you know?” Grandfather asked. “You read all the time about modern piracy being on the rise.”

  “Off the coast of Africa, definitely, and in southeast Asia,” I said. “But there’s not a lot of it in the Western Hemisphere, and most of that is in waters off the coast of South or Central America, and aimed at cargo ships carrying valuable stuff. And they don’t attack out in the middle of the ocean, where they’d be sitting ducks if anybody’s navy came along. If you look at the map of where modern pirate attacks take place, it’s always off the coast of some country that doesn’t really make a whole lot of effort to catch them.”

  “There’s a map?” Rob, who had strolled over to join the conversation, sounded interested.

  “It’s called the Live Piracy Map.” I might regret telling him this. Then again, he’d probably forget all about it in an hour or so. “The International Chamber of Commerce maintains it. Look it up when we get Internet back.”

  Rob was pulling out his phone and making a note.

  “And you know this because…?” Grandfather seemed suspicious.

  “About a week ago Aunt Penelope saw one of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies and had a panic attack about whether pirates could attack the cruise,” I explained.

  “Not a big Johnny Depp fan, then?” Rob suggested.

  “Evidently not,” I said. “Mother told me to figure out a way to calm her down and keep her from canceling. So I did a little research.”

  “Doesn’t completely rule out piracy,” Grandfather said.

  “It was enough to convince Aunt Penelope,” I countered.

  “Stranger things have happened.” Grandfather didn’t give up easily.

  “Yes, much stranger things, I’m sure. For example, maybe they’re out here waiting to rendezvous with an alien spaceship.” Probably not a suggestion I should make in front of Aunt Penelope. Or Rose Noire.