“No,” Georgina said, almost too quickly. But it was true. She wasn’t family. “If you tell him I’m here, he’ll want to see me. He’s in the US alone.”
“I’d wait and see him in the morning,” Beth said. “He has a good prognosis. He’s likely to be discharged tomorrow.”
Georgina wasn’t about to argue, but she cringed at the thought of waiting. “Melodie Fanning thinks some type of mushroom in the tacos made people sick. It’s possible, I suppose, but I have no idea how it could have happened.”
“People make mistakes,” Beth said.
“I didn’t prepare tacos or anything else with mushrooms, at least not knowingly. There were a lot of people around today, and I put together a delivery of local vegetables. It didn’t include mushrooms, though. I’d have noticed.”
“Did you have help in the galley?” Kevin asked.
“People were in and out, but I’m in charge of the food. I’m not trying to shirk my responsibility. I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”
“If mushrooms are your culprit, the rapid onset of symptoms is a good sign,” Beth said. “The more dangerous mushrooms tend to take longer to produce symptoms. Do you have a ride back to the yacht? I’m dropping Kevin off in Rock Point. We can take you to Heron’s Cove first.”
Georgina glanced from Beth to Kevin. She didn’t want to answer more questions, but she didn’t want to wait for Nick and Melodie, either. She preferred to drive back to the yacht with two first responders. Once the stress of today settled in, Melodie could start looking for someone to blame for the embarrassment of her party turning into a disaster. Georgina wanted to stay out of her employer’s line of fire, at least until she had concrete answers to give about the source of today’s illness.
“It’s not out of our way,” Beth said.
Georgina decided to seize on the invitation. “I’d appreciate a ride, thank you.”
“How do you know Mr. Hornsby?” Kevin asked as they walked to the elevators.
He was so casual and pleasant, it was hard to think of him as a state law enforcement officer. “He and my father are friends. My father’s a retired scientist. Art’s a hobby for him. That’s how he and Bill Hornsby got to know each other.” Georgina paused, wondering if she still believed that any longer, given the sensitive nature of her father’s work. “He’s sick. My father. Mr. Hornsby—Bill—had business in Boston and stopped by the marina as we were preparing for the cruise. The Fannings invited him to join us.” Georgina followed Kevin and Beth onto the elevator. “I’m sure now he wishes he’d stayed in London.”
Beth’s car was parked in the employee lot. Georgina welcomed the cool early-evening air, but she felt a surge of panic at the prospect of getting into a car with these two strangers. Beth seemed to sense her agitated mood and opened the front door. “Hop in. Kevin will jump in back. Just pull your seat up a bit so he doesn’t bang his knees into it.” She smiled easily. “Small car, long legs.”
Georgina could see how Beth managed the intensity and unpredictability of her work as an ER nurse. She’d have flamed out on her first day, not because of the emotions but the frenetic atmosphere, the hierarchy, the protocols. Her life as a chef was simple by comparison. Just don’t poison people.
Work as an ER nurse turned out to be the perfect subject for the drive to Heron’s Cove. Instead of talking about food-borne illnesses and their unpleasant symptoms, Georgina asked Beth how she’d become a nurse, was she from Maine—nonintrusive, innocuous small talk.
Then Georgina stepped into a sensitive area, asking about the wedding today. She saw her mistake immediately when Beth hesitated before answering. “I don’t know much about it,” Beth said. She glanced into her rearview mirror at Kevin in the back seat. “I wasn’t invited.”
“Look at all the excitement you’d have missed,” he said with a grin.
Beth bit back a laugh and sighed at Georgina. “That’s what we call a tone-deaf remark.”
But it had made Beth at least want to laugh. Georgina smiled. A budding romance, she thought, feeling a spark of cheerfulness for the first time in hours.
* * *
Heron’s Cove was quiet when Beth and Kevin dropped Georgina off at the marina. She thanked them and promised if she discovered the source of today’s food poisoning, she’d let someone know. “I’ll look into Melodie’s mushroom theory. Whatever happened, though, I assure you it was an accident.”
Kevin didn’t look convinced, but she reminded herself he was a police officer and decided she shouldn’t read anything into it. She thanked them again and cut past the marina’s main building down to the docks.
Once on board the yacht, she went straight to the galley. The crew had cleaned it while she’d been at the hospital. She dragged her finger across the edge of the stainless-steel sink.
Richie Hillier entered the galley. He was from Nassau, in his fifties, dark, silver-haired and slender, his entire life spent on boats of one sort or another. He’d taken her under his wing since she’d joined the crew. Trusted her. “Hey, Georgina. Welcome back.”
“Thanks. You never got sick?”
“Nope. No one else did, either. Whatever it was, it was in and out, thank you, ma’am. Miserable experience but quick.” He made a face. “Unless some poor guest is puking his guts out at home as we speak.”
“It’s hard to say with food poisoning. I’m really sorry about today, Richie.”
“I had every inch of the yacht cleaned and disinfected, including in here.”
“I see that. Thank you.” She attempted a smile. “I could tell by the smell of disinfectant. It’s reassuring.”
“Assuming it kills whatever made people sick. Has anything jumped out at you that could have caused the illness today?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“I heard it could be mushrooms,” Richie said. “Not ones that went bad but the wrong ones.”
“That’s Melodie’s theory.”
“Aren’t you a mushroom expert?”
“I wouldn’t call myself an expert, no. I’m an amateur forager. I would never serve any wild mushrooms I’d picked myself to anyone but myself, no matter how certain I was they were safe.”
“Good to know.”
“I take what happened today seriously, Richie. I know it can’t happen again. Food poisoning, whatever the source, reflects badly on the entire crew, not just me.”
“You’ll tell me once you figure out what did happen?”
“I will. Promise.”
He left without further comment. Georgina wanted to leap off the yacht into the river and swim away. She wasn’t a good swimmer, and it was a chilly night. She wouldn’t get far before someone plucked her out of the water, she got tired and swam to shore or she went under and drowned. But the urge to flee was real, and it perfectly reflected her emotions.
She looked around the gleaming galley. It had high-end appliances but was designed for efficiency rather than showing off, or for a host cooking while guests looked on, visited or helped. It was her domain. Had someone slipped in here and unwittingly added contaminated food or inedible mushrooms to one of her dishes? To the bloody tacos?
Did today’s chaos have anything to do with the Aoife O’Byrne painting, with William Hornsby—with her father?
She didn’t want to ask Melodie or any of the crew about the painting, not yet. Bringing it up now would only call attention to her, and she absolutely didn’t want that. It was a valuable painting, at least by her standards. Hornsby had gone to some trouble to bring it to her and wanted her to have it, a gift from his friend, her father.
On the other hand, maybe he’d been so aggravated at getting sick on food she’d prepared, he’d thrown the painting overboard.
She groaned. “Silliness.”
She ran down to the lower deck. The door to Hornsby’s cabin was shut but not lock
ed. She went inside and switched on the light. Like the rest of the yacht, the cabin smelled of disinfectant and deodorizer. She could see a slight stain on the soft, expensive carpet where her father’s friend had been sick.
The furnishings were lovely but simple, and it took only a moment for her to do a quick search.
Colin Donovan hadn’t been lying. There was no painting.
She looked for anything that could help her understand why her father had sent his friend to Boston with the painting. Was it true he’d had business in Boston? She’d given her father the name of the marina. He’d asked, idly, for details of the cruise, and she’d been ridiculously pleased to tell him—he’d seldom shown that kind of an interest in her life. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. She knew that, at least when she was more herself. He just didn’t know how to care.
Your father asked me to bring you a gift...
Not for a single second had Georgina anticipated the gift would be the stunning woodland watercolor by Aoife O’Byrne. Bill Hornsby had it with him when he got out of his taxi at the marina. It was in its packing materials. For most of her life, her father hadn’t remembered her birthday or acknowledged special occasions. He’d do all right at Christmas, but he lived in his head—he was all about equations and formulas and such, anything to do with neurotoxins. He was always willing to talk about the dangers of mixing bleach and ammonia. As a teenager, she’d deliberately get him going by mentioning how one could make a potent chemical weapon from ordinary garden supplies.
She wasn’t to joke about such matters, he’d tell her. Then he’d bang on about how, indeed, one could do exactly what she’d proposed. But it wouldn’t be easy to accomplish or stable, and a delivery system was problematic...none of which interested her. She’d only been pretending, to rile him up—to see what he was like when he was interested in something, since he wasn’t interested in her, at least not in the same way.
They’d shared a passion for foraging for wild edibles.
Bill Hornsby knew about that. I talked to your father before he got sick, and he told me he had a grand time hunting wild mushrooms with you on Sunday.
I hope he’ll recover soon and get back to enjoying his retirement. Are you interested in foraging, Mr. Hornsby?
Not in the least I’m afraid. Will you fly back to London?
I’m in wait-and-see mode.
She hadn’t wanted to abandon the Fannings at the last minute. The cruise was only for a few days, and they were staying close to the Maine coast. She’d figured she could leave if her father didn’t bounce back quickly and be all right.
Your father ingested a highly toxic mushroom...
The doctor who’d spoken with her on Tuesday had wanted to make sure she hadn’t consumed the same mushroom and was at risk, too. But she hadn’t. They hadn’t eaten any mushrooms together.
Georgina realized now she’d been in shock and denial. She wished she’d left for London the moment she’d found out he was sick. The Fannings would have had time to find another chef. Between them, Richie and Nick knew everyone in the yacht world.
Maybe the replacement chef wouldn’t have poisoned anyone.
She pushed that thought aside. She’d refused to take the painting out of its packaging and have a look at it until the yacht was underway. By then, Melodie had invited Bill Hornsby on the cruise. Irritated, not quite understanding why, Georgina had finally shut herself in her claustrophobic cabin and liberated the painting from its bubbles, cardboard, brown paper and duct tape.
She’d known already it was an Aoife O’Byrne work. Hornsby had meant to keep it a surprise until she opened it, but she’d insisted he tell her. She didn’t want a surprise. I’m busy, just tell me.
By the time she’d sat the painting on her bunk and propped it against the wall, she’d wanted to hate it. She’d wanted it to demonstrate how out of touch her father was with her and what she liked, wanted, needed in her life. But she’d looked at the simple Irish landscape that in Aoife O’Byrne’s hands was nothing short of miraculous. Her chest tight with unfamiliar, indescribable emotion, Georgina felt as if it had been painted just for her, as if it spoke to her soul. It was so incredible, so breathtakingly perfect, she’d burst into tears.
Not like her. Not at all.
She’d decided she wouldn’t—couldn’t—keep it. The painting was extravagant, an obvious attempt by her father to curry her favor. They’d never been close, but they’d never been at total loggerheads, either. He didn’t need to win her over, ingratiate himself—spend all that money. She would return the painting to him, and he could decide what to do with it.
If he died, she would inherit his entire estate—he’d told her as much—and the painting would come to her, anyway. Ingrate that she was, it’d serve her right, wouldn’t it?
“Georgina?”
She jumped at Nick’s voice and flew around, hand on heart. “Oh, wow, you startled me. My mind was a million miles away. I didn’t realize you were back from the hospital.”
“What are you doing? You okay?”
“I was going to grab clothes for Bill Hornsby. I forgot the FBI agent already did that.” She motioned at the floor where Nick stood. “Richie had the rug cleaned.”
“Nothing like the faint odor of barf and disinfectant.”
“Did Melodie come with you, or do you have to go back to the hospital?”
“She’s here. She’s gone to bed. She was beat. She says we’ve all been gems. Her word. Gems. Works, huh?”
He was being polite, Georgina knew, and trying to make her smile. Melodie surely hadn’t meant to include her chef in her compliment. Not me...a total mess, useless. Georgina cleared her throat, dismissing her obsessive negative thoughts. They’d gripped her hours ago, and except for the occasional tiny respite—with Beth the ER nurse, for example—they’d refused to let go. She simply didn’t know how to handle such overwhelming emotion.
She followed Nick out of the cabin. “How’s Bryce?”
“He’s weak and his blood pressure’s up, but he’s still expected to make a full recovery. It’ll take longer than he wants. Five minutes would be longer than he wants. We’ll likely stay here a couple of days. Melodie wants to be sure he won’t need to go back to the hospital.”
“I can understand that. And you—how are you feeling?”
“Me? I didn’t get sick. I’m fine. Melodie’s doing okay, too. She’s more worried than she wants to admit to Bryce. He’s already on meds for high blood pressure, and he could lose a few pounds. I guess this ordeal will help with that.”
“He is stable, though, right?”
Nick nodded, looking unconcerned. “Yeah, no worries. He got dehydrated and his electrolytes are out of whack. Who knows, maybe this’ll motivate him to take better care of himself. I’ve had a few cruises short-circuited by one thing or another during my years at sea. It happens. Put it behind you.”
Georgina stifled a prick of irritation. She wasn’t ready to take the full blame for today, even if it was her responsibility. But Nick meant well. “I’m sure I could find something if you’re hungry.”
“Richie’s having lobster rolls delivered. Why don’t you join us?”
“What, you don’t want to risk food in the galley in case it’s tainted? Richie had all the food from lunch tossed.”
“We didn’t want to bother you or go out,” Nick said, patient, no hint he’d been stung by her comment. “Come on. Join us. Relax. Meet on the sundeck in ten?”
She forced a smile. She knew he was right. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Richie picked up recovery food, did he tell you? Saltines, Gatorade, ginger ale, white rice, that sort of thing. All good to have on hand under the circumstances. It’s in the fridge and cupboard, ready when anyone wants it. Melodie said she can’t face anything right now, but maybe in the morning.” Nick pointed up the stairs. “I’m off. See you s
oon.”
Georgina waited for him to get well ahead of her. She started to shake, a delayed reaction, perhaps, to getting caught sneaking into Bill Hornsby’s cabin. She hadn’t told anyone about the painting.
Only the FBI agent.
She groaned to herself. Stupid.
She headed up the stairs, past the master suite, its double doors shut tight.
When she reached the sundeck, she took several deep breaths in a row, relishing the fresh air, the sea breeze and the starlit sky. Nick and Richie were at the bar, digging lobster rolls, fries and onion rings out of a bag and setting them on plates. They’d ordered more than enough. She appreciated their bullet-dodged approach to the day. She wanted to look at it the same way but couldn’t, not yet. Despite the short notice, everything had gone perfectly at the party, until the first person—an older woman who owned a second home in Kennebunkport—had leaped up, sick to her stomach.
Richie made martinis for himself and Nick. “Don’t tell me they don’t go with lobster rolls.”
“Tonight, martinis go with anything,” Nick said cheerfully. “Make mine dry as can be.”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” Georgina said.
Nick handed her a plate with a lobster roll—chilled lobster chunks, mayonnaise and celery tucked in a grilled, buttered hot-dog roll—and a smattering of fries and onion rings. “Relax, Georgie. No one thinks you poisoned anyone on purpose.” He grinned at her. “Whoa, that didn’t come out right.”
Richie dropped a couple of olives in a martini glass. “I’ll say.”
But Georgina found herself relaxing, as she often did with Nick’s easygoing, outspoken nature. They gathered at a table under the awning. The temperature had dropped with nightfall, but they didn’t bother with the heat lamps as they ate dinner. Although a serious-minded skipper, Richie could throttle back, enjoy the quiet moments that his job offered. They should have been serving dinner to passengers and whatever guests had stayed on through the evening. With the foliage cruise now a disaster, they had the sundeck to themselves.
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