Title Wave (11 page)

“Peach cake? I never heard of peach cake.”

“If they have it at dinner tonight, I'm trying it,” Maria said.

Tricia looked across the way. The ship's photographer was taking pictures of the cakes, as were a number of passengers, while a couple of waiters stood by with cake knives in hand, ready to begin to cut them. Her stomach growled.

A waitress stepped up to the table. “May I take your plate?”

Tricia nodded, and her half-eaten meal was whisked away.

“Would you like coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“I'd love a pot of tea,” Ginny said.

The waitress nodded.

“Oh, look,” Angelica said, “they're cutting the cakes. “I'm going to get a piece. Coming with me, Ginny?”

“Sure.”

“I'll come, too,” Tricia practically blurted.

Angelica started. “You will?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“It's just that you don't usually have cake.”

“We've shared cake once or twice.”

“
Shared
being the operative word,” Angelica said. She turned to Grace and Mr. Everett. “Can we bring you back some cake?”

“I'd love a piece,” Grace said. “Get anything that looks yummy.”

“No, thank you, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

“Let's go!” Angelica said, and led the way.

They crossed the expanse of carpet, dodging tables and chairs, before the mass of other passengers could mob the dessert table. “I'll see if I can get a corner piece for Grace,” Angelica said. “She just loves frosting.”

“I hope they have chocolate,” Ginny said.

“Maria assured us they would,” Tricia said.

The waiters were already passing out generous slices of the cake that had looked like EM Barstow's last cover. “Not chocolate,” Ginny said, frowning at the ivory cake under the gray-toned icing. It didn't look palatable.

“I think I'd rather have something different,” Tricia said, wrinkling her noise.

“I'm sure it will taste fine.” Angelica turned to the waiter. “What flavor is that cake?”

“It's French vanilla mousse.”

“Doesn't that sound yummy.”

“Yes, but the frosting,” Tricia said, frowning.

“I'll have a slice of that, please,” Angelica said, ignoring her protest. “In fact, two. I'm taking back a slice for my dear friend as well.”

“Very good, madam.”

“What else do you have?” Ginny asked as the waiter cut two slices for Angelica.

“Lemon custard, pink champagne, raspberry lemon cream, chocolate mousse, and strawberry cream.”

“I'll have the pink champagne,” Ginny said, and giggled.

“I'd like a small slice of the strawberry cream,” Tricia said.

They collected their plates and passed Maria, Linda, and Barbara, who were just starting out for the dessert table.

“Here you go, Grace. French vanilla mousse,” Angelica said, setting the cake before her.

“Oh, dear,” Grace said, taking in the size of the slice. “Vanilla,” she said with uncertainty as Tricia and Ginny took their seats.

“You don't like vanilla? Oh, I'm sorry. Would you rather have strawberry?”

“Oh, that sounds good.”

“Tricia, you wouldn't mind giving Grace your piece of cake, would you?”

Yes, she would. Her taste buds were all set for strawberry cream. But Tricia forced a smile. “Not at all,” she said, and handed Angelica her piece of cake, accepting the very large corner piece of the cake with the ugly frosting. Well, she could scrape it off if it tasted terrible.

“Thank you, dear,” Grace said with sincerity. “And it's just the right size, too.”

There was no way Tricia was going to eat a honking big piece of cake like the slab in front of her. Still, she'd take a few bites and try to enjoy it. She picked up her fork to plunge it into the icing but met resistance. She tried again. There was definitely something in that slice of cake that didn't belong there. She poked the icing in several places, still meeting resistance.

Angelica slid a piece of cake off her fork and into her mouth. She
chewed and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “This is wonderful. I wonder if I could get the recipe. My customers at”—she paused and muttered just loud enough for Ginny and Tricia to hear—“the Brookview Inn would love this.”

Tricia continued to probe the confection with her fork.

“What are you doing?” Ginny asked.

“There's something in my cake.”

“Like what?” Angelica asked.

Tricia placed the edge of her fork on the top of the cake and began scraping away the offensive-looking icing. Whatever was there was still buried in the cake itself. She dug deeper. By now Maria, Barbara, and Linda were as engrossed as Ginny and Angelica.

“I think it's . . .” Tricia let the sentence trail off as she extricated a plastic card from the cake. She reached for her napkin and wiped it free of crumbs and icing, immediately recognizing what it was.

The familiar face stared up at her from the piece of plastic. EM Barstow's
Celtic Lady
identification keycard.

Tricia wasn't
sure what she should do. If she called the waiter over to report her find, he might confiscate the keycard and then she wouldn't know if ship's security would investigate how it got into the booklike cake. One thing was for certain, it was one more piece of evidence that EM's death had not been a suicide. But would the ship's security department see it that way? Surely they must have noted it wasn't in her stateroom at the time of her death. But did that make a difference if they were going to turn a blind eye to the possibility of murder?

“What is it?” Ginny whispered, squinting to look at what Tricia held in her hand.

“Evidence,” Tricia said. Cupping her hand around the card, she showed it to Ginny.

“Oh my God!” Ginny said so loudly that every head at the table swiveled in her direction.

“Ginny?” Angelica said, her tone as concerned as a new mother's, and since she was a new mother-in-law, who saw Ginny as equally important to her as her beloved stepson, there seemed to be a note of panic in her voice, as well.

Ginny stabbed her right index finger in Tricia's direction. Still shielding the card, Tricia showed it to Angelica, whose mouth had dropped open in shock. “It was in your piece of cake?” Angelica whispered.

Tricia nodded.

“What should we do?” Ginny asked.

“
We
should do nothing. But I think
you
need to talk to Officer McDonald,” Angelica said.

“Yes, but how do I get his attention?” Tricia asked.

“Well,” Angelica began, “maybe you just ask for him to come to you.”

That seemed logical, but as Angelica had already pointed out, McDonald was probably a night-shift officer and it was after one o'clock in the afternoon. Would he appreciate being ripped from his daytime slumber to talk to her about her find?

It didn't matter. She had already spoken to him and she didn't want to try to establish a rapport with another one of the ship's crew.

“What are you going to do?” Angelica asked.

“Does anyone have a camera?” Tricia asked.

“I do,” Ginny said, and reached for her purse.

“Will it give the time and date when you take the shot?” Tricia asked.

“Yes.”

“Then please take a photo. Not only of me holding the keycard, but of everyone at the table. And I think I should be taken holding it with everyone at the table, just so there's no disputing the time and date of my discovery.”

“You sound a little paranoid,” Ginny commented.

“So be it,” Tricia said.

So Ginny took eight or ten shots of Tricia holding the sticky keycard with everyone at the table.

“Now what do you intend to do?” Angelica asked once Tricia had resumed her seat.

In answer, Tricia looked around, held up her hand, caught the attention of one of the waiters, and beckoned him to come forward. “Is there any chance you could call a security officer to the dining room? Officer McDonald, if possible.”

“What for, madam?”

“Because I found this”—she showed him the keycard—“in my piece of cake.”

The waiter looked horrified and reached to snatch the offending piece of plastic from her, but Tricia was too quick for him. She clamped her hand around the card. “Oh, no. I'll only give this to Officer McDonald. And I'm prepared to sit here all afternoon if need be to do it, too.”

The waiter nodded. “Very good, madam. I will call security. If you would be so good as to remain at your table after the luncheon concludes, I will make sure that someone from ship's security speaks with you.”

“Officer McDonald,” Tricia reiterated, “or I'm not giving this up.”

“As you say, madam.” The man bowed, pivoted, and briskly walked away.

“What if this takes a while?” Barbara asked. “Do
we
have to stay here while you wait for the security guy?”

“I shouldn't think so. But perhaps if you decide to leave, you'd give me your full names and cabin numbers, just in case Officer McDonald wants to speak with you.”

“Okay. Because Larry Andrews's cooking demonstration is at two o'clock, and Linda and I don't want to miss it.” Angelica came up with a notebook and pen, and the Gordon sisters entered their information before they got up, pushed in their chairs, and made a hasty exit.

“Looks like I'll be missing Larry's spectacular presentation,” Angelica
groused and reached for the wine bottle to top up her glass. She found it empty and frowned.

“If you don't mind, I think I'll leave, too,” Maria said after writing down her information. “It was very nice to meet you all.” She got up and hurried away.

“You and Ginny don't have to stay, Ange. Go ahead and do what you want to do. As long as we have the images on Ginny's phone, we don't have to worry about eyewitnesses,” Tricia said.

“I'm not going to leave you,” Angelica said emphatically. “But you don't have to stay, Ginny. You should go find your husband and baby and have a wonderful time.”

“Are you sure?” Ginny asked, sounding decidedly unsure.

“Absolutely,” Angelica said, leaned forward, and gave Ginny a hug.

Ginny pulled away. “Okay, but only because you insisted. We'll catch up with you both later this afternoon.”

“It's a date,” Tricia said.

Ginny got up and gave them a wave before she started for the exit.

“We'll stay with you two,” Grace volunteered.

“Oh, no,” Tricia said. “I really don't think it's necessary. And, in fact, I'm the only one who has to stay. I've got my e-reader in my purse. I could sit here and be entertained for hours until Officer McDonald gets here.”

“Are you sure, Ms. Miles?” Mr. Everett asked.

“Yes. You two run along and have fun.”

“Very well. We'll see you later this evening for dinner,” he said.

“That would be splendid,” Tricia said.

Grace nodded, and Mr. Everett got up and helped her from her chair before they, too, left the restaurant. It seemed as though the rest of the place had emptied, as well.

The waitstaff began clearing the tables, including the one Tricia and Angelica sat at. They left the crumb-littered tablecloth, but took
off every plate, glass, salt and pepper shaker, and floral arrangement, already setting up for the early dinner crowd.

Angelica had focused her attention out the bank of windows that overlooked the boat's stern and the long river of white water churned up by the
Celtic Lady
's huge propellers. Meanwhile, Tricia examined the keycard. How the heck had it ended up in one of the ship-made cakes? The fact that it hadn't been in EM's stateroom at the time of her death could only mean one thing: that someone had taken it after her death. And that fact certainly pointed to the probability that she hadn't died by her own hand.

Angelica turned back to face Tricia. “I wonder if the waiter could be convinced to bring us more coffee.”

“You could ask,” Tricia said, but since there were no members of the waitstaff within listening distance, that was going to prove difficult. “Finding this keycard in the cake might mean whoever killed EM was a member of the crew, and probably a kitchen staff member.”

“Not necessarily,” Angelica said. “Anybody who went on one of the kitchen tours earlier today could have dropped it into the batter.”

“Kitchen tours?”

“Didn't you see the announcement in the Daily Program? There are two different types. The first is for anybody and is free. But if you're willing to pay, you can get a personal tour. Antonio and I are booked for the Friday morning extended tour.”

“Really?”

Angelica nodded. “We want to see how they operate. Maybe we can learn something that we can adapt for the Brookview Inn's kitchen or another eatery we may open in the future.”

“Admit it; you'd pay extra just to tour the kitchen even if you didn't run two restaurants.”

Angelica offered a weak smile. “Probably.”

Tricia glanced at her watch. It had been nearly twenty minutes since
the party had broken up and security had been called. It was sure taking a long time for someone from ship's security to show up. Perhaps Security Officer McDonald was a heavy sleeper and hadn't heard the call. Many of the crew spoke English as a second (or perhaps third) language. Maybe they hadn't conveyed the seriousness of her find.

“Here come a couple of hunky guys in uniform,” Angelica practically sang.

As Tricia had hoped, Ian McDonald was one of them.

“Ms. Miles,” he said in greeting, although he didn't sound pleased. “I understand you found a piece of Ms. Barstow's property in your”—he paused—“afters.”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, it was in a piece of cake baked to resemble her last book.”

She held out the still-sticky keycard, but McDonald donned a pair of latex gloves before he took it from her. He pursed his lips as he studied the piece of evidence. “Where's the cake now?”

“They cleared it away. But some of my tablemates had their cameras and took pictures. I asked if they'd be willing to show them to you, and they all said yes.”

McDonald passed the keycard to his associate, who had also donned gloves, and he secured the card in a plastic evidence bag.

“So, what do you think?” Tricia asked.

“I need to ponder the significance of this find.”

“Ponder how?” Angelica said. “The lady didn't have it in her possession when she died. That means somebody lifted it. Could they have used it as well?”

“That's something we'll be checking.”

“It sounds to me like you've got a potentially bigger crime than petty theft to investigate,” Tricia said.

“And that is?”

“Murder.”

McDonald looked uncomfortable. “We will consider every option.”

“Just not that hard?” Angelica suggested.

“
Every
option,” he repeated firmly. “Now, how can I track down the people who were sitting with you when you made this . . .” He hesitated. “Discovery?”

“We made a list,” Tricia said, but since her hands were still sticky from the cake and icing, she pointed at the table, and McDonald picked up the paper.

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Will you keep me informed on what you find out about the case?”

“We don't
have
cases on board. But we will consider what you've said.”

“You better listen to her,” Angelica warned. “Tricia has a knack for this kind of thing.”

McDonald frowned. “Is that because you own a mystery bookstore?”

“
And
she's helped the police back home crack a few murder cases, too,” Angelica said with pride. “If she wasn't more interested in reading about crime rather than solving it, Tricia would have made a marvelous detective.”

“Why, thank you, Ange,” Tricia said, smiling.

Angelica shrugged. “No brag; just fact.”

McDonald's expression was dour, but he gave Tricia a nod. “We'll be in touch.” He turned, and he and his associate headed back the way they'd come.

“What do you think?” Angelica asked.

“That unless somebody comes walking along with a sign around his or her neck that says ‘I strangled EM Barstow,' they aren't going to lift a finger to try and figure out how she really died.”

“One thing's for sure; it's hard to hang yourself without some kind
of illumination—and without that keycard, EM's stateroom would have been as dark as a cave.”

“Yes, and they know that, too.” Tricia pushed back her chair. “Can you carry my purse? My hands are terribly sticky.”

“Sure thing. There's a loo just around the corner from the restaurant's main entrance. You can wash them there.”

They left the table and headed for the restaurant's entrance, retracing McDonald's footsteps. Tricia wasn't surprised at the ship's officers' lack of interest in upgrading EM's cause of death from suicide to murder. It was their job to protect the cruise line's reputation. But as she walked through the empty and cavernous restaurant, she found she felt more than a little worried about her own, and her friends' and family's, security.