Title Wave (6 page)

The final two panelists arrived, greeted the others, and took their seats. A woman in a Kelly green blazer—not unlike that worn by Angelica's former lover, Bob Kelly—and a long white skirt appeared—
microphone in hand—and spoke to the women before turning to the podium that divided the panelists.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I'm Millicent Ambrose, the
Celtic Lady
's entertainment director.” The crowd broke into an enthusiastic round of applause. Millicent held out her hands, taking in the panel. “I'm sure the ladies here need
no
introduction.”

“No!” roared the crowd.

Millicent grinned and then proceeded to introduce each of the authors to thunderous applause. “This panel is entitled Cozy Free-for-all, and that means we've got an entire hour to take inquiries from the audience. Raise your hands and we'll send a runner with a microphone to take your questions.”

Several hundred arms immediately shot into the air. Millicent pointed to one of the audience members not far from Tricia's seat. A tall woman with a mane of snowy hair stood, waiting for the uniformed crew member to bring the microphone to her. “Is there a lot of jealousy and competition between you ladies?”

“Only if our books come out at the same time,” Hannah said with a smile, and nudged Norma.

Norma waved a hand to dispel her colleague's words. “That's not true. Hannah and I have had books come out the same time and we cross-promoted. We both sold a fabulous amount of books.”

“Does cross promoting happen a lot?”

“It does with the Lethal Ladies,” Victoria piped up, referring to their group blog.

“Would you help other authors promote, too?” someone else asked.

“We do it all the time, especially on social media,” Diana said.

“But say your books come out the same time as a really
famous
author.”

“Are you saying we're not famous?” Victoria asked, straight-faced.

“I don't know about you, but nobody offered me a limo and an all-expenses-paid trip,” Hannah quipped, to a ripple of laughter.

“Define
famous
,” Norma asked.

“Someone like EM Barstow.”

A low murmur ran through the audience.

“Sometimes our books do come out the same time as the mega bestsellers,” Diana acknowledged, “and their backlists
do
take up an inordinate amount of space on the
New York
Times
list, leaving no room for anyone else. But that doesn't mean we want to
kill
them. Maybe just
maim
them.”

The audience laughed, as she'd intended them to.

Millicent acknowledged another waving hand in the audience. A woman dressed in an aloha shirt stood and waited for the microphone to arrive. “My question is for Fiona Sample. Will there be any more books in the Bonnie Chesterfield mystery series?”

“I'm working on number ten right now. If you tune in to the ship's morning TV program tomorrow, you can learn about Bonnie's latest run-in with Morgan Appleton. And I might even drop a few hints about the upcoming nuptials.”

Enthusiastic applause broke out. Tricia had missed reading the previous book, but she knew she had copies of it on her shelves back at Haven't Got a Clue. She'd make sure to read it when she returned home.

“We'll take another question,” Millicent said, and looked over the audience as more arms were raised. She pointed to a man in a bright green sweater. He stood.

“My question is also for Ms. Sample. How's your lawsuit going against Zoë Carter's estate for stealing your work on the Jess and Addie Forever historical mystery series?”

Fiona's smile dimmed. Tricia had helped expose the fraud, and found herself leaning forward to hear Fiona's answer.

“Sorry, but I'm not allowed to speak about the ongoing litigation. But if you have a question about my other work, I'd be happy to answer.”

The man shook his head and sat down, obviously disappointed by her statement.

Millicent stood a little taller. “I've got a question for all of our panelists.”

Tricia looked to her left at the box seats on the upper level and caught sight of EM Barstow and her assistant, Dori. EM held one hand over her mouth and pointed at the stage toward Diana Lovell with the other. Had Diana's flip remark angered EM, whom Tricia was beginning to think of as nothing more than a common bully? And would that bully retaliate against the lovely woman Tricia had had the pleasure of hosting at her bookshop on more than one occasion, when her only encounter with EM had been so unpleasant? She hoped not.

The program had moved on and she'd missed the last question and the answers from the panelists. Millicent asked another.

“Barbara Walters is famous for asking her interviewees what kind of tree they'd like to be. Do any of you have a preference?”

The panelists giggled. Victoria Burke raised her hand. “I want to be one of those thousand-year-old oaks in England, but only as long as I can have my husband beside me, and the acorns we planted that have now sprouted to trees.”

A smattering of applause followed her answer.

“Hannah?” Millicent asked.

“I'd be a willow,” the author said. “Graceful and able to bend with the gentle breeze or a fierce gale.”

“How about you, Norma?” Millicent asked.

“I'd be a sequoia. Tall, and straight, and resilient against the wind, weather, and fire.”

“Fiona?” Millicent asked.

“In honor of Canada—my adopted country,” she piped up, “I would definitely be a maple. Maple syrup is wonderful and sweet—like me!”

The audience laughed.

“And how about you, Diana?”

“I'd be an olive tree in Greece. They're beautiful; gnarled, but strong, and able to feed the world.”

“Aww,” a portion of the audience chorused.

Tricia smiled, pleased by each author's answer to what could have been just a frivolous question, and her admiration for each of the women rose, too.

Millicent turned back to the panel. “We've got time for one more question. Ladies, cozy mysteries always feature justice for the killer. Do you think it's possible for someone to get away with murder in real life?”

Diana laughed. “Why are you looking at me when you ask that?” The audience broke into laughter. “Turn your gaze a little farther to the right,” she said, waving a hand. “There you go.” Again the audience laughed. “Seriously, I would have to say yes; of course it's possible—if the killer is supremely devious. Again, why are you looking at me?”

Laughter reigned once more.

“Hannah?” Millicent asked.

“Of course I do. It's a matter of perception. If a person creates the perception that he or she is
incapable
of murder, most people will pass them over in search of another suspect. Effective deceit is based on confidence—and intelligence. Anyone with enough of those two things, as well as the ability to keep to themselves, can get away with murder.”

“How about you, Victoria?” Millicent asked.

“Right in my own community there are a number of unsolved murders, many of them cold cases. That means people
are
getting away with murder. We all know this. That's what gives our books their authenticity. Well, that and all the recipes.” The audience giggled. “More than that,” she continued, “there are plenty of cases where
people are falsely convicted of murder for a variety of reasons. Let me just say, put the cozy writers in charge of investigations and watch those rates drop. I'm willing to step up.”

The audience broke into a round of enthusiastic applause, and Millicent had to wait for them to quiet down before she could ask Fiona the question. “Ms. Sample?”

“Count me in for believing that one can get away with murder. It may be harder these days, thanks to social media and the ability to make a wider swath of the public know about such cases, but as Victoria said—there are far too many cold cases for me to believe otherwise.”

Millicent turned to the last of the panelists. “What do you think, Norma?”

“I plead the fifth,” Norma said, giving the spectators an exaggerated wink and a smirk.

The audience laughed as one, and again rewarded the author with applause.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there you have it,” Millicent said. “All five of our fabulous authors will be available to sign copies of their latest books in the second story of the
Celtic Lady
's magnificent library. You may purchase books there or bring your personal copies with you.

“In conclusion, let's give these Lethal Ladies of mystery a hand for their wonderful repartee.”

The audience broke into thunderous applause.

Tricia turned to her left once again but found that EM and Dori were no longer occupying the private box. For some reason, their absence seemed . . . well, not exactly sinister, but certainly unfriendly.

EM was a much better known author than the ladies on the stage. Not that her books were better. In many ways, they weren't. She'd just been lucky to find a wider audience. The truth was, Tricia enjoyed the books written by the authors who'd entertained that entire theater full of readers more than she had enjoyed any of EM's books. EM's
style was stark; her characters devoid of any real warmth. But as the author herself seemed incapable of engendering that perception, it wasn't surprising that empathy was lacking in her work.

Lost in thought, Tricia hardly noticed that she was one of the last of the audience to leave the well-appointed theater. She sat in her comfortable seat and contemplated what she'd experienced during the last hour. There'd been an air of frivolity with an underlying current of tension.

She wished she understood what it meant.

Tricia left
the ship's theater, pondering Millicent's last question and the answers the panel had given. She wasn't sure she agreed that people got away with murder on a regular basis. At least, she hoped not.

She opted out of going to the book signing and instead sought out her sister, whom she found in their stateroom, spread out on her loveseat with a pad and pen, and many pages of notes surrounding her.

“Sorry I didn't make it down to the theater. Did I miss much?”

Tricia took her usual seat on the loveseat across the way. “Everyone on the panel was charming and funny. One of the authors made a little joke about how every time EM Barstow has a new book out, her backlist takes up all the slots on the
Times
list.”

“It's no joke. It happens all the time,” Angelica said.

“EM was in the audience, although I can't think why. Cozies aren't her subgenre. Anyway, I saw her say something to Dori and then point
at the stage. I just hope she isn't planning anything spiteful against the author.”

“What could she do in retaliation?”

“I don't know. But I wouldn't turn my back on that woman in a lighted room, let alone a dark alley.”

“I'm sure you're exaggerating.”

“I hope so,” Tricia said.

Angelica gathered up her papers, swung her legs off the loveseat, and set her notes on the coffee table. “The kitchen staff is giving a demonstration on making art from fruit. Wouldn't you love to come with me and see it?”

Angelica looked so hopeful that Tricia found she couldn't say no. That said, she decided to bring her library book and e-reader along. If things got dull, she could always escape to another world.

After a short hunt for Angelica's shoes, they headed for the Garden Lounge, where the demonstration was to take place, and found that a large group of passengers had already assembled, seated in rows of chairs pulled from the room's bistro tables and placed in front of a small raised platform that held a drum set and a bass fiddle. Tricia must have missed what the timing was for whatever combo played. A little musical interlude might be pleasant. She'd check the Daily Program after dinner to see if there was a listing. A cloth-covered table sat in front of the tiny bandstand, and on it were bowls of various fruits and vegetables, from pineapples to grapes, from peppers to heads of cauliflower.

“Drat!” Angelica cried. “We'll have to sit by the windows. We'll hardly get to see a thing.”

Just then, a couple of crew members wheeled in a big mirror, not unlike the one that used to grace the demonstration area in Angelica's cookbook store—the Cookery. That is, before she had it removed so that she could expand her line of merchandise.

“Are these seats taken?”

Tricia looked up to see the Dexter twins standing beside them.

“Not at all.”

“Are you ladies having a nice trip so far?” Angelica asked as the sisters sat down at the little bistro table beside them.

“It's a lovely ship,” Muriel said.

“And the food is divine,” Midge agreed.

“But we are a little disappointed.”

“In what way?” Tricia asked.

“We hoped at least one of our favorite authors would be on the voyage.”

“Who did you have in mind?” Angelica asked.

“Frank Miller,” Muriel said.

“And his name can't be mentioned in the same sentence without Klaus Janson,” Midge chimed in.

“I'm not familiar with their work,” Tricia admitted.

“They're responsible for
The Dark Knight Returns
.”

Tricia blinked.

Muriel looked at her with incredulity. “They're
very
famous.”

“In what genre?” Angelica asked.

“Graphic novels.”

Again Tricia blinked.

“Do you even know who the Dark Knight is?” Midge asked, sounding surprised.

Tricia shook her head.

“Batman!” Muriel cried, and then giggled.

“You're into comics?” Angelica asked, surprised.

“Oh, yes. We have the most extensive collection in the entire state of New Hampshire,” Midge said smugly.

“We're very proud of it,” Muriel agreed. “We've even got a copy of
Action Comics
number one—the first to feature Superman!”

Midge shook her head sadly. “Alas, it's not in mint condition, so it's probably only worth a couple hundred thousand.”

Tricia was back to blinking.

“You must be the best customers at All Heroes comic book store,” Angelica said.

Again Midge shook her head. “Not really. Oh, Terry, the owner, has a lot of great stuff, but we head to Boston or New York for the really
interesting
stuff.”

“What constitutes interesting stuff?” Tricia asked.

Muriel leaned closer and whispered, “Vintage.”

Tricia nodded. “Just like I prefer vintage mysteries.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you ever read your older comics?” Angelica asked.

“Yes—online.”

“Why online?” Tricia asked.

“We wouldn't touch our paper copies.”

“Oh, no,” Muriel agreed. “They're far too delicate. They must be saved for future generations.”

“But if future generations can't actually touch them—read them . . . then of what use are they?”

“Historical documents,” Midge declared.

Muriel giggled. “Oh, sister, now you're sounding like the Thermians from
Galaxy Quest
.”

Midge tittered.

Tricia and Angelica exchanged confused looks.

“Oh my God,” Muriel exclaimed, staring at the Miles sisters. “They're mundanes!”

“Mundanes?” Tricia asked. Was she being insulted?

“Yes. Obviously, you aren't into science fiction and other fandoms and can't know the joy of belonging to a group of like-minded thinkers.”

Angelica frowned. “I never thought of myself as mundane. I mean, look at my shoes.”

The Dexter twins leaned forward to inspect the footwear Angelica
had brandished for their approval. It was a pretty shoe—red, with snappy straps and a two-inch heel. The sisters turned back to each other and hollered, “Mundane!” and then laughed hysterically.

“You have definitely been insulted,” Tricia muttered to Angelica.

Before Angelica had time to reply, a man in a chef's toque stepped up to the microphone on the riser behind the table of fresh fruits and vegetables. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending the
Celtic Lady
's fruit and vegetable carving event. You'll be amazed, you'll be thrilled, and best of all you can
eat
our sculptures!”

“Isn't this fun?” Angelica asked, beaming.

Tricia didn't answer, thankful she had her library book to entertain her during the next hour.

Angelica's attention was trained on the table before them as the first chef stepped forward, pineapple and knife in hand, to attempt the first sculpture.

Tricia opened her book and began to read, but the words weren't making much sense. It wasn't just the Dexter sisters and their comic book comic routine that had discombobulated her, but her thoughts kept circling back to the panel discussion and an unsmiling EM Barstow, who had attended to do . . . what? Ridicule the other authors? Or had she gone to deride the hundreds of readers who didn't enjoy books filled with graphic depictions of blood and gore? The truth was, Tricia skipped over those often ghastly descriptions in EM's and other thriller authors' books. The daily news was filled with far too many accounts of man's (and woman's) inhumanity to man (or woman) for her to enjoy reading the same or worse for entertainment purposes. That was why she could better enjoy vintage mysteries. The violence was off the page. Someone was usually murdered, but there was usually a reason the killer chose such an outrageous solution—at least in his or her own mind. Too many thrillers were, well, thrilling. Revoltingly thrilling. Sickeningly thrilling.

No, thanks
, she thought, feeling just a tad depressed. Real life was filled with too much horror these days. She'd witnessed too much of that in her own life; the murder of her ex-husband topping the list. The fact that she would have to testify before a court of law in the not-too-distant future also filled her with dread. She would do her duty as a citizen, but she feared the experience would tear open the wound of Christopher's loss that had only just scabbed over.

“Voilà!” the chef at the front of the room cried, and Tricia looked up to see that the man triumphantly held aloft what looked like a monkey holding a lotus flower.

“Isn't it gorgeous ?” Angelica cried, applauding with enthusiasm.

Tricia frowned. “That wouldn't be my first choice of descriptor.”

“Okay, then cute.”

“You weren't thinking something like that would go over at Booked for Lunch, let alone the Brookview Inn, were you?”

“Probably not,” Angelica admitted. “But talk about skill with a knife.”

“Do you think they'll have ice sculpting, too?” Tricia asked.

“I hope so. I wonder if Jake at the Brookview would like to learn to do that.”

“Shouldn't he stick to cooking and leave that to the gardener?”

Angelica glowered, obviously not amused at Tricia's attempt at humor.

While they'd spoken, three of the sous chefs had entered into a contest to carve a 3-D relief on the face of melons. In just under five minutes they'd finished. One had sculpted a sun, another the man in the moon, and the third a face that looked an awful lot like the late Lucille Ball.

“Wow—I'm impressed,” Angelica murmured in awe.

Tricia shook her head and turned her attention back to her book. Yet her gaze kept wandering back to the growing number of fruit sculptures. Now, if they'd carve the Maltese Falcon, that would
really
capture her interest.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tricia caught sight of Cathy Copper standing to one side, watching the show. While the woman might have annoyed her the evening before, she looked lonely standing there. She was about to get up to signal Cathy to join her when the editor turned away for the corridor that led to the elevators, still limping a bit. Oh well. Maybe Tricia would catch up with her later. It was a big ship, but it would be easy to feel lonely with no friends or family to share the adventure with.

She turned back to look at her sister. Angelica's gaze was still fixed on the table ahead, where the fruit sculptures were piling up at an alarming rate.

Clever as the fruity carvings were, they didn't hold much allure for Tricia, who stifled a yawn. What she needed was a nice strong cup of coffee. She leaned closer to her sister. “I'm going for coffee. Want something?”

Angelica shook her head, watching the flashing knife that hacked away the excess flesh of a mango as it was transformed from a piece of fruit to a figurine.

“I'll be back in a few minutes,” Tricia said.

Angelica nodded, but continued to stare enraptured at the show that continued before them.

“We'll save your seat,” Midge said as Tricia sidled past the twins.

The Lido Restaurant was on the same deck as the lounge, and Tricia entered the door, stopping at the hand sanitizer. As she worked the foam between her fingers, she noticed Fiona Sample up ahead. She was alone, and Tricia hurried to join her.

“Fiona!”

The author looked up and waved. Tricia joined her.

“How do you think the panel went?” Fiona asked eagerly.

“Oh, it was great fun. You were wonderful.
Everyone
on the panel was wonderful. If you're not busy, would you join me for coffee?”

“I'd love to.”

They selected mugs, filled them from the large stainless steel urn, and doctored them before turning to search for an empty table. They found one halfway down the long aisle that overlooked the ocean, and sat down.

“I'm having such a wonderful time. It's so great to connect with readers and authors I've only known via the Internet.”

Tricia lifted her cup to take a sip when she saw Arnold Smith steering his scooter down the aisle. The basket in front was filled with books.

“Hi, Fiona,” he called out as he passed, heading for the restaurant's exit to the stern.

“Hi, Arnold,” Fiona said, sounding less than enthusiastic.

“Thanks for signing all my books.”

Fiona's smile looked forced. “You're welcome.”

They watched him go. When he was out of earshot, Tricia spoke. “You know that guy?”

“Everybody knows Arnold from social media. Facebook, in particular.”

“How?”

“He comments on a lot of posts, but he's best known as a prize pig.”

Tricia's eyebrows rose. “A what?”

“Authors have giveaways for books and other swag. Arnold enters every one of them. The idea behind the contests is for winners to give honest reviews of the books. He doesn't. In fact, he's on a number of lists from publishers who send out review copies. One of my readers discovered that when Arnold receives a shipment, he immediately lists the books on eBay. It's rumored that he makes enough money to support himself.”