Title Wave (19 page)

“I'm sure you will,” Angelica said, plastering on a smile.

The couple gave them a parting nod and headed for the other side of the bar.

Tricia sat back in her seat. “Interesting.”

“Very interesting,” Angelica agreed.

“Why would a lawyer come on board?” Tricia mused.

“Perhaps Cathy didn't believe EM's death was suicide any more than you do. Perhaps she called her boss and they sent someone to make inquiries on the publisher's behalf. EM was no doubt worth a
lot
of money to them.”

“There could be a provision in her will allowing the estate to authorize someone to continue writing with her name. There are plenty of authors who've died, yet still crank out bestselling books—either written by ghostwriters or with a lesser-known author's name in a much smaller font on the cover. Tom Clancy is a prime example. Other times, a family member has taken up the reins of a series. Felix Francis immediately comes to mind.”

“I never read any of their books.”

“You've missed out,” Tricia said with pity.

“The original books or the
after-death
books?”

“Both.”

The sisters thoughtfully sipped their martinis. “You know,” Tricia said at last. “I've been thinking about the night I found EM.”

“Oh! Why would you want to revisit that terrible event?” Angelica asked, chagrined.

“Not so much
what
I saw—but what I
didn't
see.”

“And what was that?”

“Her computer.”

“Perhaps she'd packed it away for the night.”

“I don't think so. I mean, I never saw her without it. I'll bet she had it plugged in every night so that it would be fully charged so she could take it to various places on the ship and write.”

“You did say you saw her writing in the library on our first day at sea.”

“And she brought it to the bar that first night to show Cathy her ideas about where she wanted her series to go.”

“Do you think the killer stole it?”

“Could be. I wonder if Cathy was allowed into EM's stateroom, didn't see the computer, and either immediately called her bosses—”

“Very expensive at sea,” Angelica said.

“—or fired off an e-mail to let them know the computer was missing. It may have held the only copy of her latest work in progress.”

“Surely she had a flash drive or uploaded it to the cloud,” Angelica suggested.

“Internet connections can be spotty at sea.”

“As I have found out,” Angelica agreed. “But I still think any writer would be a fool not to have backup. I mean—accidents happen. I once spilled a cup of coffee on my laptop. Good-bye, laptop!” She looked around Tricia to take in Harold and Cathy across the way. “I still don't understand why they'd send a lawyer. Wouldn't a private detective be a better choice?”

Tricia took another sip of her martini. “Maybe. Perhaps they're looking for a legal loophole to do a little snooping for the publisher. A private eye wouldn't have that kind of pull.”

“That makes sense,” Angelica agreed. “But suppose they
do
find out something that proves EM's death was a crime and not suicide?”

“In some places, suicide
is
still considered a crime.”

“And how are you going to arrest a corpse?” Angelica asked wryly.

“Make the heirs pay for any costs associated with investigating the death. And, of course, most religions consider suicide to be a sin.”

“That's an angle they may not have thought about. Did EM have strong religious convictions?”

“Maybe. I suppose they'd have to ask her family and friends.”

“Do you think Dori would know?”

Tricia shrugged. “Maybe. Speaking of Dori—it seems she had quite the shopping excursion. She came back to the ship loaded down with plastic bags.”

“I thought she was broke.”

“That's what that rude bookseller thought, but who knows? I don't go around broadcasting my financial status—and neither does anyone I know.”

Angelica sipped her drink thoughtfully. “Do you think Mr. Pilger will want to question Dori?”

“Undoubtedly. She makes a good suspect, if only because of the way EM treated her in public.”

“The woman had no manners—and probably no friends, either,” Angelica commented.

“And yet both Dori and Cathy defended her, saying she had problems not apparent to people outside her inner circle. Then, of course, there was Grace's assessment of her personality.”

“Yes,” Angelica agreed. “I do try to see the good in people, but I must admit it has been a challenge when thinking of EM Barstow—and I never even had to deal with her directly.”

“Let's change the subject. What do you think you'd like to do tonight?” Tricia asked.

“I believe there's a darts tournament in the Golden Harp pub. Since the Dog-Eared Page opened, you've gotten very good at it. Perhaps you should enter.”

“I've been lucky,” Tricia agreed, “but I have a feeling that the competition on board could be too fierce. I prefer to play for fun.”

“We could go watch and maybe have another martini.”

Tricia smiled. “Maybe.” She looked up and saw the ship's entertainment director standing in the aisle outside the bar, speaking with another crew member. “Oh, look. There's Millicent Ambrose. I've been trying to catch up with her.” Tricia set her glass down on the table and rose from her seat. She walked purposefully toward the entertainment director, who noticed her approach and quickly dismissed her colleague.

“Hello, Millicent. I'm sorry to interrupt,” Tricia began.

“Not at all. How can I help you?”

“I don't know if you remember me. Tricia Miles.” Tricia extended her hand.

“Very nice to bump into you again,” Millicent said, but it was obvious she had no recollection.

“I understand you interviewed EM Barstow before her death.”

“Yes, we ran it yesterday.”

“There was so much going on that day. I'm sorry I missed it. Is there a chance it'll be shown again before the ship returns to New York?”

“Yes, but not until Friday, I'm currently working on a new introduction and then a tribute. Being at sea, it's been difficult getting biographical information and testimonials.”

“Oh? But her editor and assistant are both on board.”

“Really? I'd love to speak with them; perhaps film additional interviews.”

Tricia gave Millicent Dori's and Cathy's names, but didn't think it was wise to mention that Cathy was sitting mere feet from them.

“Thank you. This is brilliant. My conversation with EM was the last official interview she gave. We'll be offering it to the networks. It should be great PR for the cruise line.”

Yes. And it was too bad Tricia would have to wait days to see it. Still, what were the chances EM said something cryptic that might point to her killer?

Tricia forced a smile. “I'll look forward to seeing the program, as I'm sure a large portion of the passengers will, too.”

“It'll be spectacular,” Millicent promised. “Perhaps we'll even rerun it in prime time. Excuse me, dear. I really must run.”

Tricia watched as the entertainment director charged off down the corridor, only to be intercepted by yet another passenger.
C'est la vie.

Returning to her former seat, Tricia picked up her glass once more.

“Learn anything new?” Angelica asked.

“Only that Millicent's interview with EM will rerun on Friday morning.”

“Her show airs at the crack of dawn. You'll have to set an alarm or ask for a wake-up call,” Angelica advised.

“I'll do what I have to. I'm not about to miss it.”

Angelica shook her head in what looked like consternation. “You're getting too involved. And what for? You have no stake in this.”

“You forget; I
found
the poor woman. I intend to observe only, and if I learn anything of note, I'll report it to the person or persons most likely to follow up on it. In this case, that would probably be Harold Pilger. He wasn't on board when EM died. He has no personal stake in any of this, but the people—or rather corporation—he represents certainly do.”

“Whatever you do, keep it impersonal. I don't even want you talking to Dori or Cathy again. I want you safe. You have a business to run and a home to renovate. You have goals, and friends and family who love you.”

Including a possible stalker,
Tricia reminded herself.

She didn't want to think about it.

Tricia glanced at her watch. “Rats. We've already missed dinner with Ginny and Antonio.”

“Oh, dear. What should we do about dinner?”

“Nothing much. What did you have in mind?”

“You know, fish and chips might be just the thing at the ship's pub.”

Angelica frowned. “After that tea, I'm not sure I'm all that hungry.”

“But I didn't fill up. I may be ready for dinner in another hour or so. You don't have to come with me if you don't want to.”

“What? And sit alone in our room?”

“The Daily Program said the ship's TV channel was repeating the documentary on ocean liners that sank,” Tricia said with amusement.

“Which is not what
I
want to see,” Angelica exclaimed.

Tricia smiled. “If you only want an appetizer, that's all you have to
order. But I've never experienced mushy peas and I think I might like to try them at least once.”

Angelica glowered. “Better you than me. Do we need to change?”

Trisha shrugged. “I'll bet if we arrived buck naked nobody would care.”

“Well, I would,” Angelica declared.

Again Tricia smiled, feeling content—something she hadn't experienced in quite a while. “Why don't we have another round—and on me, this time—and then make our way to the Golden Harp?”

“I'm for that,” Angelica said, and drained her glass. She looked around, caught the waitress's attention, and motioned her to attend to them.

Once the drink order was taken, Angelica turned back to Tricia. “Now, let's have no more talk about EM, her death, or anything else sordid. We're on holiday,” she said, using the European expression for
vacation
. “Deal?”

“Deal,” Tricia readily agreed. Except . . . What if something interesting came up?

Just for a moment, she wished she'd crossed her fingers before answering.

The Golden
Harp wasn't rocking, because they were playing traditional Irish music when Tricia and Angelica arrived at a little after nine, but the atmosphere was certainly cheerful.

“Oh, dear. There isn't a free table in the whole place,” Angelica said with chagrin.

Tricia looked around the low-ceilinged room and saw Fiona Sample sitting with a number of other authors at a large table in the back of the pub. Tricia caught her eye and waved. As she hoped, Fiona gestured for her to join them. “I think we just got lucky,” Tricia said, and motioned for Angelica to follow.

“Hi,” Tricia called, and stopped in front of the table.

“Hey, Tricia. Are you going to compete in the darts tournament? Nikki tells me you're one of Stoneham's best players.”

“Oh, she exaggerates.” But Tricia enjoyed hearing the compliment nonetheless. “You remember my sister, Angelica.”

“Hi, Fiona. It's good to see you again.”

“And you, too!”

“We came for fish and chips, but it looks like we should have arrived a lot earlier.”

“We've only got room for one more, I'm afraid,” she apologized.

“Oh, we can squeeze in another chair for your friends,” Lethal Lady Helen Evans said. Tricia had briefly met her at the author signing the previous day.

“Sure we can,” Carmen Hammond agreed. “Ladies?”

Suddenly the women and lone male at the table started scooching their chairs aside to make room. Angelica snagged another chair from a table for four with only three occupants, and the sisters edged in between Norma and Sidney, facing Fiona across the table. Fiona made the introductions.

“So, what's the consensus of opinion on EM Barstow's death?” Angelica asked, and Tricia felt like kicking her under the table. So much for her request not to broach the subject.

“Oh, she was murdered,” Hannah Travis said confidently.

“Absolutely,” Victoria Burke agreed, and sipped the last of her drink.

“But that's not what we've been led to believe,” Tricia said innocently.

“Of course not. They don't want to panic the passengers,” Helen said.

“What makes you think it was murder?” Tricia pressed.

“They're pulling your leg,” Norma Fielding said reasonably. “Will somebody see if they can snag the waitress? I need another Guinness.”

“I could use another martini,” Angelica muttered.

“As far as we know, there's no evidence to point to anything other than suicide,” Diana Lovell agreed.

Tricia glanced askance at Angelica, who'd pursed her lips, no doubt in an effort not to giggle guiltily.

“Of course, there were plenty of people who probably could have
cheerfully strangled the woman,” said the lone male at the table. It was thriller writer Steven Richardson. Tricia had read and enjoyed most of his books.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Her split personality.”

“Oh?” Angelica asked. “I thought nasty was her only way of life.”

“She could also be passive-aggressive. I said right—she said left, just to be contrary.”

“Oh, yeah,” Fiona agreed. “We were once on a panel together and were asked some innocuous question that required only a yes or no answer, but EM went on some kind of tangent that infuriated not only her fellow panelists but the audience members as well. She pretended to be totally clueless about it, too.”

Tricia saw movement in her peripheral vision and then suddenly Arnold Smith's motorized chair came to a halt practically in Carmen Hammond's lap. “Hello, ladies and gentleman. Any chance I could join you?” From the looks on the authors' faces, the answer was a definite “No!”

“We're stretched pretty thin here, Arnold. How about a rain check?” Lorelei Garner asked. She was the only Lethal Lady to whom Tricia hadn't been personally introduced at one point or another during the trip.

“Yes,” Carmen quickly agreed. “We've still got two days aboard this lovely ship. How about meeting for lunch at the Lido Restaurant?”

From the expressions on the faces of the rest of her tablemates, Tricia was sure poor Carmen would have to suffer lunch alone with the bore.

“Sure thing, Carmen. I think I'll cruise around the deck and come back a little later. Maybe one of you guys will leave and make room for me,” he said pointedly.

No one commented.

Arnold gave a wave and started for the door. Tricia waited until he
was out of earshot before speaking. “EM hinted that Arnold had stalked her.”

“She wasn't the only one,” Sidney Charles commented.

“Oh?” Tricia asked.

“Several women in our circle of author friends have received threats that were traced back to Arnold.”

“What kind of threats?” Angelica asked, sounding concerned.

“Being smeared on social media,” Fiona said. “Arnold's an Internet troll. Cross him and he posts negative reviews about your books, or he'll make nasty blog comments. And he has a legion of fellow creeps who will do likewise.”

“What kind of person would do that?” Tricia asked.

“A bully,” Norma said. “I saw that all too often during my years as a school nurse. “You're a psychologist, Helen; what do you think?”

“Bullying is much more about the bully than the person who's on the receiving end. These types are angry, entitled, and at their core, extremely insecure. So, they adopt the ‘I'll get you before you get me' way of life.”

“Do you think Arnold ever threatened EM with physical harm?” Angelica asked, probably worrying about Sofia, Ginny, and Antonio.

“Just because he rides around in a motorized chair doesn't mean he's without physical strength,” Hannah said.

A waitress arrived and took drink orders for those who wanted a refill and dinner orders for Tricia and Angelica. Everyone surrendered their keycards and Tricia felt sorry for the poor waitress who had to figure out everyone's drink orders and charges. Still, it gave her time to absorb what she'd just learned. Arnold Smith a stalker? Had he begun his mini reign of terror with EM with seemingly innocuous gifts like wine, a sweater, chocolate, and flowers? Tricia glanced at Helen Evans, who was not only a talented fiction writer in a number of genres, but as Norma had pointed out, a clinical psychologist, too. Would she have
time to speak to Tricia further on the subject or was it unfair to ask for a professional opinion when the poor woman was on vacation?

The answer was a resounding yes.

Besides, if Tricia had ever wanted to seek professional help, she'd have done it in regard to her relationship with her mother, and that was now a moot point as far as she was concerned. No, she was more interested in what motivated people like Arnold to menace others. She'd certainly read enough fiction on the subject, but it might be interesting to read some true crime accounts. Perhaps the ship's library would have a book on that topic. She'd have to check.

The drinks arrived, along with the dinners Tricia and Angelica had ordered.

“What's that you're drinking?” Angelica asked Diana.

“Malbec. It's a wine from Argentina. Lovely. A little fruity with a smoky finish.” She looked around the table at her fellow authors. “Anyone want some of these gorgonzola chips?”

Steven reached for one. “Thanks.”

Angelica shook her head, picking up her martini and taking a sip.

Hannah sipped her margarita. “Here's a question I've always wanted to ask a group of authors. Have any of you ever known a murder victim?”

“Tricia has,” Angelica piped up. “Let's see. . . .” She counted on her fingers, quickly running out of them. “At least ten . . . including her ex-husband.”

All eyes turned to look at Tricia, who was about to take her first bite of mushy peas. “I didn't kill any of them,” she said, sounding defensive.

“Of course not,” Angelica said quickly, reaching for her martini glass and taking a very large sip.

“How were they killed?” Victoria asked aghast, then took a slug of her Jameson on the rocks.

“Let me think. The first one was stabbed. One had the brakes on her car tampered with. Um, a couple of them were strangled. One
was bludgeoned to death. Oh, and I can't forget poor Deborah, who died when a plane crashed into the village gazebo—now that was a bizarre one. Then there was—”

“I think they've heard enough,” Tricia said with consternation.

“That's a lot of bad luck,” Diana commented.

“Yes,” Angelica agreed. “That's why she has the reputation as the village jinx.”

Tricia winced, grinding her teeth at that hated nickname.

“She also helped the police solve many of those murders. Of course, she didn't have to solve poor Christopher's murder.”

“Christopher?” Victoria asked.

“Her ex-husband. He was killed right in front of us—in front of a bunch of witnesses. It was horrific.”

Hot tears stung Tricia's eyes at the memory. Why did Angelica have to mention it—just when she thought she was getting over his death?

“He saved my life,” Angelica went on, sounding just as teary, and took another gulp of her martini. When she put the glass down, Tricia appropriated it.

“Ange, I think you've had enough,” she said quietly.

“You poor thing,” Helen said, looking at Tricia. “Actually both of you. It must have been terrible.”

“Oh, it wash,” Angelica whimpered, slurring her words. Now she was getting maudlin.

“Eat your dinner,” Tricia urged gently. Angelica should have eaten something before imbibing all those martinis. Tricia took the long-delayed bite of mushy peas and scowled, unable to see the appeal. Instead, she set down her fork and tore open the packet of malt vinegar, sprinkling it across her chips.
Ah, much better.

Angelica picked up her fork and poked at the piece of fish on her plate, pouting. Tricia dug in. The fish—and the chips—was excellent. She took another bite. She really had needed sustenance.

“Tricia!”

Tricia turned around to see Ginny pushing Sofia's stroller and accompanied by Antonio. They halted in front of the table. “We missed you guys at dinner.”

“We're having it now,” Tricia said, cutting the end of her fish with the fork.

“I don't think I want mine,” Angelica whimpered, pushing her plate aside.

“I'm afraid Angelica has had a little too much to drink,” Tricia said, and chomped on another chip. Never had a French fry tasted so good.

Antonio frowned, “Angelica, my dearest. Would you like us to take you back to your suite?”

Angelica nodded and sniffed.

Antonio pulled the chair back and helped Angelica to her feet. She sniffed again. “It was very nice meeting you all.”

A chorus of “same here” followed.

“Thanks for taking care of her. I'll be back to the cabin after I finish my dinner,” Tricia said.

“I'll sit with her to make sure she's all right.”

“Thank you, dear,” Angelica said, and patted Antonio's cheek.

“We'd better go,” Ginny warned, turning the stroller around. “See you later, Tricia.”

Everyone watched Angelica go.

“Is that her son?” Diana asked.

“Uh . . . no.” Tricia wasn't about to reveal Angelica's secret that Antonio was her stepson—not in front of Fiona, whose daughter was a fellow Chamber of Commerce member. “He's . . . he's a friend. A good friend.”

“I'll say,” Hannah said, and sipped her margarita.

“You've had a lot of shattering experiences,” Helen commented. “If you ever need to talk, I'd be glad to listen.”

At that moment, Tricia didn't want to think about anything unhappy. Enjoying her dinner was her top priority, and she was clearing her plate in record speed. She swallowed. “Thank you, Helen. Maybe we could talk sometime tomorrow about stalkers. I may have one of my own.”

“Oh?”

Tricia nodded and reached for her own martini, taking a sip. “Since we boarded the ship, I've been receiving little gifts.” Little? A bottle of Dom Pérignon could not be called a trinket, but the other gifts were all well under one hundred dollars each. Still, the price tags had probably accumulated to the tune of five hundred dollars or more, which wasn't inconsequential, either.

“Have you received any threats?”

Tricia shook her head. “No. In fact, Angelica insists I've got a secret admirer.”

“Let's hope it's just that,” Norma agreed, but looked worried just the same.

Victoria drained her glass. “It's time for me to turn in. Big day tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Tricia asked.

“It's our next-to-last day on the trip, and I intend to enjoy every minute of it. What are the rest of you doing?”

“There's that editors' panel tomorrow. That could be quite interesting, especially since EM's editor is going to be on it,” Sidney said.